


A Delicate Balance, Part One

by Sondra



Series: A Delicate Balance [1]
Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-15
Updated: 2012-08-15
Packaged: 2017-11-12 05:12:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/487086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sondra/pseuds/Sondra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With plans to take down the Federation Pylene-50 program still pending, Blake makes two preliminary trips: to find the wife and children of a Federation officer whom the rebels are holding prisoner and to rendezvous with Hunda on Helotrix (where he also plans to meet up with Deva's cousin, an undercover rebel operative working within the ranks of the Federation). A sequel to "Beloved Adversary".</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Delicate Balance, Part One

                   Somewhere behind the masks are  
                      faces  
                   more loving than you ever dreamed.  
                   Loving through choice  
                   and not coercion,  
                   possessing their own "yes" and "no"  
                   and choosing "yes" without shame,  
                   and choosing "no" without guilt,  
                   and choosing love.

                   Somewhere behind the masks are  
                      lovers  
                   truer than you ever dreamed.  
                   Giving by choice  
                   without resentment,  
                   possessing their own "I" and "thou"  
                   and choosing "I" without betrayal,  
                   and choosing "thou" without regret,  
                   and choosing love.  
                                             --Linda Weltner                                      

I

 

In the brightly lit kitchen of an underground base on the officially uninhabited side of the planet known as Ryanec 5, a man called Docholli was peeling potatoes. Quite a contrast to the professional status he'd once held, but when you join the ranks of rebels, you can't be choosey. The irony of it brought a smile of contentment to his lips: at the height of his success as the Federation's top cybersurgeon, he'd never known what it was to have a clear conscience. Now, thanks to a handful of "political criminals", he was freer than he'd ever dreamt possible, and the potential danger that was his constant companion seemed a small price to pay.

Down the corridor some distance away, a pair of animated voices contended with one another in high-spirited argument. The twins are at it again, Docholli thought with a chuckle. That was his private name for them. He had confided it only to the woman Soolin, who'd warned him with the utmost gravity never to let _them_ hear him utter it. "One will be flattered and the other will be outraged," she'd said. "The problem is, the one who will be flattered is the one who _ought_ to be outraged, and the one who will be outraged is the one who _ought_ to be flattered, and between the two of them, you'll never live it down." As his knife cut through the now-naked tuber and the slices tumbled neatly one by one into the pot of boiling water, he laughed again.

The voices were growing louder, closer. All at once the dueling dyad came crashing into the kitchen, never breaking their stride nor ceasing their quarrel for an instant.

"All I'm saying, Blake, is Deva doesn't belong on this kind of mission."

"And _I'm_ saying he's the one crucial person this mission cannot do without."

"Just because of his cousin."

"Yes, just because of his cousin. He's the only one of us who can identify his cousin by sight, the only one who can make sure it's not a trap. _You_ should appreciate _that_."

"Need I remind you that blood relations are no guarantee against traps?" Avon's teeth flashed like points of a dagger as he deftly pranced around Docholli and reached for one of the carrots the doctor was now endeavoring to add to his vegetable soup-in-progress. "The point is, he's no good under pressure, Blake, not the physically threatening kind. _You_ should appreciate _that_."

"You pay too much attention to externals, Avon," the rebel leader said as the computer tech picked up a spoon.

"And you pay too little attention to the evidence. I tell you, if we take Deva, we'll end up pulling him out of one scrape or another. _I'll_ end up pulling him out of one scrape or another. _You'll_ probably be getting into a _different_ scrape at the same time. If it were up to me, neither of you would go." He paused, dipped the spoon into the pot and retrieved a mouthful to sample.

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, the crew for this mission should consist of Tarrant, Dayna, Soolin and myself." He tasted the soup and handed the spoon to Blake.

"But it's not up to you, Avon. It's up to me. It's one of the burdens of command you claim to have so gratefully relinquished." He lifted his own spoonful from the pot, swallowed it and murmured, "A touch more salt, I think."

"Definitely," Avon agreed. It was the first time they had even acknowledged Docholli's presence. "If anyone needs me," he continued, "I'll be on board the ship, checking out the navigation systems for the flight to Helotrix and running some last-minute tests on the teleport. It _will_ be our first non-practice use of it from orbit to ground, after all." He backed out into the corridor.

Blake shot Docholli a meaningful glance. "You didn't hear any of that."

The doctor stared blankly. "Any of what?"

Blake patted him on the shoulder. "Good man." Then he, too, departed.

Docholli turned back to the simmering pot and withdrew a bit of the soup for his own gustatory edification. He sipped, frowned, sipped again, and shrugged. But he found himself adding a generous measure of salt to the concoction all the same.

*****

Vila Restal walked down a different stretch of corridor, counting doors to the left and to the right. Even after three weeks in this place, he tended occasionally to lose his bearings. The base they had taken over--a base abandoned centuries earlier by the planet's first settlers, who'd found the mountainous surroundings unsuitable for long-term colonization--had been designed for a much larger group than the eight presently constituting their rebel band. Not that that was any cause for complaint. It was, in fact, Vila thought, a distinct improvement over some of the living spaces they'd had to settle for of late. The _Zebulon_ , for example. Or the farmhouse on Gauda Prime. But one could become confused by all those identical doors, especially if one had been--well, celebrating...

As he counted and daydreamed, the thief stumbled into Tarrant--literally.

"Oh, Vila, for the love of--" The pilot broke off in mid-sentence and heaved an exasperated sigh.

"Sorry," the other mumbled sheepishly. "I was looking for Blake. You don't happen to know where he is, by any chance?"

"I haven't seen him all day. As a matter of fact, Dayna was looking for him awhile ago, too. She's designed a new explosive she's eager to show off."

The thief paled. "Explosive? Down here? That's a little risky, don't you think?" He cast furtive glances around him. "I mean, there are all these walls that could cave in. Remember the cave-in on Xenon? Remember what happened on Terminal when Servalan's explosives went off?"

"Oh, give it a rest, Vila."

"That's what I'm afraid of--that we'll _all_ get to rest--permanently."

Shaking his head in a gesture of resigned futility, Tarrant continued on his way.

Then Vila spotted another member of the group emerging from behind one of those nondescript, faceless doors. "Hi, Soolin," he called to her. "Where's Blake?"

"Hello, Vila," she returned with a patronizing smile. "How should I know?"

"Just asking--just in case."

"Anything I can help you with?"

"Not unless you know whether Blake's decided who's going on the mission to Helotrix."

"Ah," the woman exclaimed in sudden comprehension, "You're hoping you're not included."

Vila grinned. "Well, you know me."

Soolin grinned back. "Yes, I certainly do." He seemed to miss the note of mockery in her voice. "Sorry, Vila.  Blake doesn't confide in me about command decisions." She sighed.  "Or anything else these days--so onward to new and brighter horizons."

He stared at her stupidly. "Eh?"

With a mysterious smile, she sauntered down the hall and disappeared behind one of those doors Vila could not decipher.

He continued on his way and was gradually drawn in the direction of an appetizing aroma. Now his pace quickened, for one of the few places Vila never had trouble finding was the kitchen.

"Docholli," he exclaimed brightly upon entering. "What's for dinner? Mind if I have a taste? By the way, where's Blake?"

"Which of those questions would you like me to answer first?" the doctor retorted.

Vila thought a moment. "Where's Blake?" he stated confidently.

"Don't know," Docholli replied. "But he was here a short while ago with Avon, so maybe Avon knows."

"Right." Vila turned to leave, then turned back. "Where's Avon?"

"On the ship. Or so he said."

"Right." Vila turned again and again turned back. "The dinner?" he repeated hopefully.

"Be my guest."

Vila stared into the pot. "Ah, vegetable soup. Potatoes, carrots, onions, turnips--funny, innit, in this modern day and age when you can have all your food synthesized by machine, people still pay top credit for the genuine imported article."

"You mean you _bought_ this food on that shopping expedition when we first got here?"  Docholli teased. "You didn't steal it?"

" _Steal_ it? What do you think I am?" Vila looked genuinely hurt. "Only thing I stole that day was the shirt Blake owed Avon from that business back on Gauda Prime. The rest of the clothes we bought. Paid top credit for them, too. Same as with the food here. Picked it up in an Alpha market specializing in Earth imports."

"You passed for an Alpha?"

"Well, we bought the clothes first. I dressed like an Alpha."

Docholli threw back his head and laughed at the mental image that conjured up. But his laughter stopped abruptly when the thief took a huge mouthful of soup and promptly bent over the sink to spit it out. "Too much salt," he sputtered, his face all screwed up.

Docholli threw up his hands in defeat. "Everyone's a critic," he declared, then, as Vila ambled out into the corridor, shouted after him, "I'm a cybersurgeon, you know, not a chef!"

*****

Avon _was_ on the ship. That was another place Vila had no trouble finding. It represented escape-in-times-of-danger, and safety was for him an even higher priority than food. Indeed, when they'd first arrived, the _Zebulon_ constituted the only means of departing the base--either directly or via the teleport. But it soon became clear that that situation was unacceptable. Since Blake had in mind any number of off-planet excursions--this upcoming journey to Helotrix to retrieve what remained of the Pylene-50 antidote given to Hunda being a prime example--and since the entire crew would not necessarily be _going_ on every mission, those staying behind faced the uncomfortable prospect of becoming trapped inside the mountain. A prospect that could turn positively lethal should the spacecraft fail to return from one of its expeditions. True, Avalon knew where Blake's people had gone after returning her to Iridian, but she was four days away at best. No, it had to be made possible for any of them to come and go at a moment's notice without the _Zebulon_. Accordingly Avon had constructed a second teleport bay at the base itself, totally independent of the ship's systems, permitting the base's inhabitants to move freely between home ground and the rest of Ryanec 5. Or at least as freely as security considerations would allow...

Coming onto the flight deck without first announcing himself, Vila blurted out unceremoniously, "Where's Blake?"

And Avon leaped up as if a spring in the chair he'd been sitting on had catapulted him to his feet. "Don't say that to me!" he snarled, spinning on Vila.

The thief flinched in bewilderment. Admittedly the man's back had been turned, but still... "Don't ask you where Blake is?" he echoed, perplexed.

"You may ask me where Blake is," Avon endeavored to clarify, "but use different words. Say 'Have you seen Blake?' or 'By any chance, do you know where I might find Blake?'"

Vila struggled to understand.  "You want me to use _more_ words than necessary?"

"Yes."

"You sure you're not suffering a recurrence of that fever you had on Gauda Prime?" Avon glared at him. "Okay, okay--just tell me one thing. Is this personal to me, or can't Dayna and Tarrant and Soolin and Deva say those two words either?"

"It's not personal to you," was the laconic reply.

"Good," Vila stated unconvincingly. "Good. So what's the answer?"

Avon resumed his seat, picked up the tool he'd been working with before the interruption, and returned to his task. "To the question you asked, the answer is: I believe you may find him with Dayna in the Weapons Room."

"Thanks." Vila turned to leave.

"To the question you _didn't_ ask," Avon added with a smile, "the answer is: No, Blake isn't planning to drag you along to Helotrix."

*****

The room Soolin had disappeared into was Deva's. The friendship that had begun between them during the journey from Gauda Prime had deepened into a relationship of mutual trust and emotional intimacy. They told each other things they told no one else, confessed their darkest fears, shared their most shameful inadequacies. And they talked about the man who had become, for each of them, the blazing sun of hope and transcendence around whose luminous core their lives magically revolved.

Magic didn't come easily to an innately unimaginative man like Deva, and it had never come at all before to Soolin. As a teenager she had witnessed, then avenged, the murder of her parents--then spent the ensuing years wandering from planet to planet, selling her deadly skill with a gun for survival and an endless succession of opportunities to prove she'd never be victimized again...

Deva was talking now about that morning on Gauda Prime when Blake had rescued Avon from Servalan's planned execution--literally snatched him from the jaws of a gruesome death. To Soolin had fallen the task of cleaning out Avon's worst wound, a procedure carried out without benefit of anesthesia, a veritable torture inflicted on a man who'd lived through a night of torture, a man weak with fever and a hundred hidden pains. She'd long ago painted that scene for Deva as she'd lived it. Now he painted it for her as he'd listened to it, and watched Blake listen to it...

_Avon_ _was screaming, all semblance of self-control gone. The sound of his agony burst through the walls of his bedroom, through the floor of his bedroom, through the ceiling over their heads. Blake would not walk out the door, would not cover his ears, would not try in any way to escape the horror of it. He just sat trembling, the tears filling his eyes and occasionally rolling down his cheeks._

_"You'd trade places with him, wouldn't you?" Deva exclaimed in awe-struck realization._

_"Yes, of course," Blake replied matter-of-factly. "Wouldn't you?"_

_"Frankly--no. I'm sorry if that disappoints you."_

_Blake shook his head. "It doesn't disappoint me. It astonishes me. I know he's not your favorite person in the galaxy, but after what he's been through, I should think anyone in this household would take his place up there gladly."_

_Deva looked down.  "It's nothing to do with my personal feelings about him, Blake. I couldn't go through that for my favorite person either." An uncomfortable warmth blanketed his face. "Well, maybe for my_ favorite _person--" he amended tentatively._

_Blake gave the man's shoulder an affectionate squeeze. "You're a good friend, Deva," he said..._

"Blake's like that, you know," Deva said, looking at Soolin. "He expects us all to be like him because he doesn't think he's better than the rest of us."

"I've noticed," she returned.

"Even though he is."

"I've noticed that, too."

"But he accepts it when we don't turn out to be. Did you know he once forgave Vila for betraying the _Liberator_ to Travis and his own uncle for turning him in to Travis when Travis was holding the man's daughter?"

"Vila tell you all that?"

"Uh-huh."

Soolin stretched out on Deva's bed, more casual than seductive, propped up on one elbow, her cheek resting against the palm of her hand. "Would you really?" she asked. "Go through pain like that to spare Blake? Would you do what Avon did that night? Would you accept the death he accepted?"

Deva squirmed awkwardly. "What a question. I don't know. Would you?"

Soolin sat up again. "Not the carimbula, I can tell you that. I saw a man dying that way once when I was a child. I'll never forget it." She shuddered involuntarily. "I couldn't do that for anyone."

"But you know," Deva countered, "you don't really have to be willing to go through with it. Because once you commit yourself, there's no way out. So you only have to work up the courage to say the right words. Then it's out of your hands."

"And you could do that--for Blake."

"Well, not for anyone else, that's for sure!" He turned red. "I'm sorry. I'd like to be able to say I would do it for you, but I'd be lying and--"

"Sh," Soolin whispered, laying her finger against his lips. "That's okay. I'd never expect you to. And I'm glad you didn't lie about it either. The honesty between us is so important to me."

"To me, too," Deva echoed--but he pulled back, letting the moment slip away.

"So you'd do that for Blake," she persisted. "Commit yourself that way."

"I hope so. I'd want to. I'd like to think I would. Of course it's impossible to be sure in advance. And the closest I ever came was more imaginary than real. Mind you, it _felt_ real--"

Soolin looked puzzled. "I'm not following you."

"That's because there's something I never told you about the day we boarded the _Zebulon_ \--something embarrassing."

"I think you _did_ tell me something embarrassing about that day," Soolin recollected with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

"No--something _more_ embarrassing. Though why it should be, I don't really understand." He paused and took a deep breath. "Okay, it's about when we were shut up in that crate together, and I panicked and started hyperventilating."

"You said that Blake took your hand and you calmed down," Soolin recounted.

"I know that's what I said."

"It wasn't the truth?"

"It wasn't the _whole_ truth." He looked into her waiting, patient, accepting eyes and continued. "When I started hyperventilating, the thought popped into my mind that I was using up Blake's air. So I stopped. Because I wasn't going to do that, not out of fear, not to save my own life, not for anything. Not that. I just wasn't going to steal Blake's air." His confession completed, the man sat there, shaking.

Soolin mulled it over in her mind for a moment, intuition outstripping logic in her comprehension of the meaning of it. Then suddenly "logic" caught up. "My God, Deva," she exclaimed, "You're in love with him."

"Oh, don't be daft!" The swift retort was out of his mouth before he even realized it. Avon had said the same thing once, but Avon had said it with malice and contempt. There wasn't a trace of either in Soolin's voice, making him half-regret his harsh response, yet too mortified to retract it.

"Thanks a lot," she shot back. " _I'm_ in love with him, you know."

"That's different, Soolin."

"Why?"

"Because you're a woman. And I'm not--oriented that way."

"Irrevelant."

"Is it?"

"Utterly." She chuckled. "There are men, and there are women. And then there's Blake." Deva smiled. "You do know what I mean, don't you?"

"Yes, but--God, Soolin, I feel so exposed."

"If it helps, I doubt that Blake's noticed." She emitted a little snort. "Hell, he only noticed it in me because I made it impossible for him not to do."

"It's not Blake I feel exposed to," Deva clarified. "It's you. Lord, Soolin, what you must think of me."

As he tried to wriggle away, she caught him by the hand and pulled him down onto the bed beside her. "You've no idea what I think of you," she murmured.

"So tell me."

"I'd rather show you." Their faces were so close that they could feel each other's gentlest breath. Soolin kissed him on the mouth, firm and slow and escalatingly passionate. "In case you need a translation," she whispered as they broke apart, "that means 'I think you're wonderful.'"

Deva stroked her hair, his face flushed with excitement. "Soolin, are you sure you know what you're doing?"

"I'm not Dayna, Deva. I have done this before."

"That's not what I meant. I meant that a relationship between us could--well--create complications."

She smiled invitingly and brushed his lips with her own. "I have a suggestion."

"What?"

"Let's create a complication--now..."

*****

In the area designated the Weapons Room, Dayna was demonstrating her new explosive to Blake. "I call this piece the connector. It contains the circuitry that responds to the remote control command device. It fits over the other two pieces like this." Blake watched intently as she snapped it into place. "As long as this is on, you can't trigger the fuse except by pre-arranged computer code."

"It's a safety feature then?"

"Exactly. It keeps the two volatile elements from coming into contact with one another. If you remove it, you can set off the explosive directly in any of the usual ways. But with the connector in place, you can also set it off from a distance."

"A double safety feature then."

"Right." Dayna was in her element now, beaming with pride and an almost sensual pleasure. "You do lose something, of course, by being so far removed from the actual site of destruction."

"I think we can afford to live with that loss," Blake said wryly. "What's the maximum range?"

"Whatever you set it for within the parameters of the computer's capability."

"Orac as controller?"

"Why not?"

"A little like IMIPAK then."

"Please," Dayna protested. "I heard all about IMIPAK from Cally. I go crazy with envy just _thinking_ about possessing a weapon like that."

Blake regarded her "warrior's passion" with amused tolerance. "Yes, well, _some_ fantasies are best left fantasies," he remarked.

"That thing can't go off, can it?" inquired a worried voice as Vila appeared on the scene.

"Good question."  Dayna grinned sadistically. "Let's find out. Here, catch." And she tossed the device in his direction.

Vila hadn't been there to hear the explanation about the connector, but even if he had been, the Weapons Room was one of his _least_ favorite places on the base. Instead of catching the device, he dropped to the ground and covered his head with his arms. Dayna laughed merrily. Blake shook his head at both their antics. Vila gradually peeked out from under his arms and warily eyed the item lying at his feet.

"Like the dead carimbula," Dayna cackled. "Remember, Blake?"

"All right, girl, that's enough," the rebel leader admonished quietly. "It's okay, Vila," he added and picked up the explosive himself.

The thief finally staggered to his feet. "You shouldn't do that, you know," he rebuked his tormentor. "I've got a weak heart."

"You've got a weak--"

"Dayna!" Blake called sharply. "I said that's enough."

"One of these days you're going to get someone killed," Vila predicted ominously.

"Yes, well, that is the object of the exercise," the woman declared. "See you later, Blake." She sauntered off.

"I mean, she's going to get one of _us_ killed," the thief continued.

"All right, Vila, settle down. Did you want to see me about something?"

"Yes, about Helotrix. I never really went there, you know. I mean, I stayed aboard _Scorpio_ the whole time. It was Tarrant and Lady Boom-Boom who went down. So I don't really know my way around the place too well. Not at all, in fact."

"It's all right, Vila," Blake assured him. "We won't be needing a thief for this operation."

"See, that's what I thought," he bantered brightly. "I said to myself: Blake won't be needing a thief for this operation. On account of he doesn't have to _steal_ the Pylene-50 antidote. On account of Deva's cousin is arranging for Hunda to give it to him. On account of he's agreed to use the _Zebulon_ to transport some of Hunda's men to the planet Wanta to teach combat techniques to new recruits. You know, I hear they're some of the galaxy's best fighters. Dayna must have gotten along with them famously down there. Any chance of lending her to Hunda's people for a spell? You know, like Avalon did us Docholli?"

"Vila, you're babbling," Blake said gently. "I've already told you you can sit his one out. Is anything else bothering you?"

The thief hesitated for a moment, then said, "Well, kind of. Blake, I think there's something wrong with Avon. Something new, I mean," he clarified hastily, seeing the look that had elicited. "He doesn't want people to ask him where you are." The rebel leader frowned in total non-comprehension. "I mean, we can ask him where you are, but we can't ask him where you are. You understand?"

"No."

"We can't say: 'Where's Blake?' We can't use those particular two words. You understand?"

"Yes."

"You do? Great. Now explain it to me."

Blake sighed. "Avon has a sort of conditioned response to that phrase."

"I'll say he does. You should have seen how he jumped when I said it." Then, "How did he get it--the conditioned response?"

"The night Servalan tortured him," Blake related, "she apparently kept repeating that question over and over again as she inflicted the torture. So he came to associate the phrase with excruciating pain."

"Oh, oh, I see," Vila said quietly. "Oh, that's terrible!" he concluded loudly.

"Yes, it is, Vila," Blake agreed. "Avon's a very brave man. He suffered a lot that night protecting us."

The thief snorted, his momentary display of compassion over. "Protecting _you_ , you mean."

"We were all at the farmhouse together, Vila," Blake maintained. "If Avon had told Servalan that, we would all have met the same fate."

"Maybe," the other conceded. "But for some of us, _not_ meeting it was only a happy accident."

Blake pondered Vila's words. "You think he wouldn't have defied Servalan if I hadn't been involved."

"You got it."

The rebel leader looked totally unimpressed. "You're wrong about that," he said simply.

*****

A few minutes later Blake was on his way to Deva's room, his attention split between mentally assembling a disguise to wear when he teleported into the heart of Ryanec proper the next day and the need to reassure himself that Avon's reservations about taking Deva to Helotrix were baseless. Avon and the GP native had consistently--and mutually--misread one another from the start, in Blake's estimation. He knew that, for Deva at least, part of the problem was jealousy, and it made him uncomfortable to realize he was the object of it. _He_ knew he took nothing away from any of the others by loving Avon in the special and unique way that Avon's being evoked in him. Why couldn't they understand that as well?

Thus preoccupied, Blake laid his hand on the control panel, and the door to Deva's room slid open. "Deva," he began, stepping over the threshold, "I need to have a word with you about--" He stopped abruptly as his eyes beheld the half-naked couple on the bed. An instant earlier, and he'd have caught them _in flagrante_. "I'm sorry," he stammered. "I guess I should have knocked."

"Yes, you should have," Deva agreed, scrambling to cover his partner before himself. Soolin wrapped herself in the blanket he handed her, while he settled for the thinner sheet.

"Would you prefer me to leave and come back later?" Blake asked.

"What for?" the other countered. "The harm's already done."

"No harm done," Soolin offered graciously, her eyes locked with those of the intruder. "Just a spot of awkwardness, and not the most memorable one at that."

"Soolin--"

"Would you prefer _me_ to leave and come back later, Blake?"

"Not unless _you'd_ rather."

"No. I'm fine," she insisted, pulling the blanket more tightly around herself.

"What is it we need to have a word about Blake?" Deva asked.

With that invitation to business, all of Blake's embarrassment evaporated. "The first thing tomorrow morning," he said, "I'm going to call on Captain Malkar's wife. I feel terrible about putting it off this long as it is, but we did have to get the base in order first. Anyway, once I get back, I'd like to leave for Helotrix as soon as possible. So I'd like you to use Orac to get in touch with your cousin and make sure the arrangements we agreed on are still satisfactory."

"All right."

"Use Avon's shielding device--the way we did when we first contacted Avalon from Gauda Prime."

"Naturally."

"One other thing. I need to know if you have any qualms about accompanying Avon and myself to the rendezvous."

"Of course not. Where would you get such an idea?" Blake didn't answer--and that was answer enough. "I see," Deva said with a rueful little smile. "It's not _your_ idea, is it?"

"As long as it's not true," the rebel leader returned evasively.

"As long as my _saying_ it's not is good enough for you," Deva parried.

"Always," Blake promised staunchly. For one long minute, they held each other's eyes.

You're so good at this, Blake, Deva thought. You touch a man in places he never even knew he had, make him realize he's more than he ever conceived of. But what do _you_ feel at such times? What can you learn from them that you didn't already know...? He was all but oblivious to Soolin now--here in the presence of their "luminous core"--as she'd been all but oblivious to him moments earlier...

"Right," Blake declared suddenly. "I'll be on my way then, let you two get back to--whatever." He smiled impishly, knowing he'd been fully forgiven and shamelessly taking full advantage of it. "Oh, and next time, I'll knock."

"I think that would be a very good idea," Deva agreed, wrapping his arm around Soolin's shoulder.

"Right," Blake repeated. As the door slid aside to allow him egress, he hung in the opening an instant longer. "And, by the way, congratulations. Both of you."

When he'd gone, Soolin flung the covers aside irritably. "Disappointed at his reaction?" her partner asked.

"Oh, Deva, I'm sorry," she breathed. "I didn't mean for you--"

"To _see_ your disappointment?" he cut in.

"I hope you know _you_ didn't disappoint me," she said earnestly, looking into his eyes. "And I _am_ sorry I behaved that way with Blake in front of you. That was inexcusable."

"No, it wasn't." He took her by the shoulders. "You're my best friend, Soolin, the best friend I've ever had, and I hope I'm yours. If I'd thought for one minute that going to bed with you would put that at risk, I'd have turned you down, no matter how much I may have wanted it."

"It didn't. It won't," she insisted.

"That's right--not unless we let it. And the only way we can let it is by starting to be dishonest with one another. We can't lie to each other about anything, Soolin--Blake least of all."

They returned to the bed, this time making sure the door was locked first.

"The others wouldn't understand about us, would they?" Soolin murmured.

Deva pulled her close to him. " _They_ don't have to," he declared.

 

II

 

The boy looked to be about 14 years of age, dark and lean and handsome. Yet there was a sadness in his eyes, incongruent with his youth, as he sat on the broken curb and aimlessly rolled a ball back and forth.

"No school today, Son?" the stranger's voice inquired.

The child looked up, squinting a bit, trying to make out the man's features. Except for the badly scarred eye, it was difficult to see much in the shadow of the hood he wore, pulled close around his face. "No school for the next 53 time units," he replied. "You must be an off-worlder if you don't know that."

"Right you are," said the man. "Mind if I sit and chat awhile?"

"Streets are Federation property."

"True, but your time isn't."

What an odd remark, thought the boy, as the stranger sat beside him, but it gave him a warm feeling somehow that an adult should show him such respect. "Careful of the sharp edges," he warned the man, indicating the jagged stones. "It's been like that since the last major tremor. The Federation keeps promising to get it repaired before the next one, but so far they haven't. Trouble is, no one knows for sure when the next one will be. Minor tremors happen all the time, and once there's been damage, it doesn't take a whole lot more to make things fall apart. My dad used to say--" He broke off abruptly, biting his lip.

"My name's Roj," the man offered cheerfully, extending a hand.

"Ved," the boy responded, shaking it. "Ved Malkar."

"Good to know you, Ved. You were saying something about your father?"

The child shrugged. "It's not important." But the stranger's eyes wouldn't let him go. They were deep and kind--even the scar didn't make the man look scary the way scars sometimes did--and all of a sudden his grief came bubbling to the surface. "My father was a space captain. His ship exploded. He died."

"I'm sorry," Blake said. It was all he could say for the moment.

"He was on an important mission for the Federation," Ved continued. "He died in the line of duty."

"You must miss him very much." Again, the need to tread a fine line between truth and recklessness.

Ved eyed the man curiously. " _You_ have a family?"

"An uncle and a cousin. They live on a planet far away from here."

"You miss them?"

"Yes. Yes, I do."

"No closer family?"

"I had, but they were--they died also."

"I have a mother, two brothers and a sister."

"I'd like to meet them."

Ved ignored the bid for an invitation. "How'd your eye get like that?" he asked.

Unaccustomed as he was to children, Blake found the candor refreshing. "It's a long story," he replied, smiling to let the boy know he was not offended.

"I'll bet it happened in the war."

The smile took on a touch of irony. "You could say that, yes." Ved hadn't specified _which_ "war", after all--even though " _the_ war" was commonly understood to mean the Intergalactic War with the Andromedans. Blake seized that moment of delicate rapport with the child--that unspoken, unconscious sympathy for a man bearing a visible wound as his own heart bore an invisible one--to press his earlier request. "So what do you say you introduce me to your mother? This your house here?" He knew it was, of course. He'd had the address all along. It had merely been a matter of working out the nearest location where the teleport could deposit him without risk of his "rematerialization" being observed.

"Okay, sure." Trusting lad, Blake thought, as he followed behind him. Not an everyday attribute on a Federation world. Must be part of a secure, loving family. He knew from Avalon that the father of that family was a man of considerable honor, that he comported himself with grace and dignity in the circumstances of his confinement on Iridian--and that despite the anguish it obviously caused him to know his family thought him dead, he'd not lowered himself to plead for any special mercy in that regard.

In fact, he refused to believe Avalon when she told him that Blake was going to tell his family the truth! Well, was it any wonder? "Who in their right mind _would_ believe it?" Avon had commented tauntingly. Because who in their right mind would _do_ it? Blake knew it was risky, but his own direct experience with Federation lies concerning the life or death of one's relatives had made him determined to put an end to the current hoax at the earliest possible opportunity...

In the living room, Ved introduced him to his eight-year-old brother Gar and his five-year-old sister Mara.

Then Ved's mother walked into the room, hair jet-black like that of her son, tied with a scarlet ribbon. She was carrying a baby in her arms, who looked to be about a year old. "That's Jo-Jo," the lad said, grinning. "Well, Jorum, but we all call him Jo-Jo. And that's my mother, of course. Mother, this is Roj. He's an off-worlder come to Ryanec for a visit."

"How do you do," the woman said courteously, but not without a trace of suspicion in her voice. "I'm Mirabel Malkar. Gar, would you hold your brother, please?" She handed the infant to her next-to-eldest son. "Forgive me if I seem a bit startled. Visitors rarely turn up here without advance warning, especially visitors from off-world. Ryanec is a maximum security planet, you know."

"So I understand," Blake murmured.

"Where did you say you were from exactly?"

"I didn't."

Now the dis-ease in her eyes deepened to embryonic fear. For all that, Blake read goodness and nobility there, and his heart ached at the thought of the grief he'd had a hand in causing her.

The sound of wind beat against the partially opened window. Mirabel went to close it, but it was stuck. "Here, allow me," Blake offered. He gave it a good push, and it came unstuck, but not before a gust of wind blew back the hood he was wearing, revealing his entire face.

Mirabel stared at him. "Roj," she repeated thoughtfully. And then a sudden flicker of recognition swept across her face. "Roj _Blake_!" she exclaimed. "That's who you are. I _know_ you. I've seen vis-casts of you. Oh, my God!" Her voice rang with absolute terror.

"Mother, what's wrong?" asked the boy who had brought the stranger home. He looked up at the man he had felt such an inexplicable attraction to, and his mother screamed at him, at all of them: "Ved, Gar, Mara, get away from him! Get away from that man!"

Frightened more by her than by him, they obeyed. Mirabel stepped in front of them, as if to shield them with her body. Gar still held the infant, and she cast conflicted glances in their direction, as though she couldn't decide whether her most fragile and helpless was safer in her arms or behind her back. "All right, so you're Blake," she addressed the visitor-turned-intruder.

"Yes, I am," he acknowledged. "But if you'll give me a chance to--"

"Please, Blake," the woman said. "I don't know why you're here or what you want, but please, please don't hurt my children."

"Hurt your children!" he repeated in horrified shock. "Of course I'm not going to hurt your children! Dear lady, who _have_ you been listening to?" And then he let out all his breath in one huge sigh of comprehension. "As if I need to ask."

Mirabel calmed down fractionally in response to that assurance, less because she believed it than because she so desperately wanted to. "I don't know what you're doing here," she began again more quietly.

"Well, if you give me a chance," he repeated, "I'll tell you."

Through her lucid, intelligent eyes, he could almost see the wheels turning in her head. "This isn't an accidental meeting," she surmised. "You're here on purpose--to see _me_..."

"Yes," he confirmed.

Ved picked up on the deception at once. "But you said--"

"I'm sorry, Son," Blake cut in. "I didn't want to alarm you. I didn't know how to explain to you who I was or why I needed to talk to your mother."

"Well, who _are_ you? Why _do_ you?" the boy shouted.

"Mrs. Malkar--Mirabel," Blake addressed her. "Could we talk in private? What I have to say to you concerns your whole family, but I think it might be best if the two of us talked about it first."

The woman nodded, more because she was eager to put physical distance between her children and the convicted child molester standing in her living room than anything else. Her memory of the Federation vis-casts about Blake threatened to make her physically ill. Child molester was just a part of it, albeit the part uppermost in her panic-filled mind. Terrorist, saboteur, murderer and sworn enemy of the Federation were the other parts. "Ved," she said thickly, her mouth dry with dread, "Take your brothers and sister and go downstairs."

"Upstairs," Blake corrected firmly. She stared at him. "I have to know they can't leave," he explained simply. Her face crumbled. "I'm not going to hurt them," he reiterated, "or you. I just have to be sure they won't get away to summon help." Ved looked at his mother, and she nodded her assent. Then he looked at Blake with pained ambivalence. Then he herded his siblings up the stairs.

As soon as the children were out of view, Blake asked, "Where's the central computer control box for the house?" Trembling all over, Mirabel mutely pointed. Blake went to the box and disabled the circuits governing the communications console, insuring that the youngsters would not be able to _call_ for help either. Then he took her by the arm and guided her to the sofa. "Sit," he commanded.

He watched her struggle to compose herself, strained with the deepest chords of his gifted empathy to see himself as she must: not just the caricature on a hundred Federation wanted posters, but the living, present man wreaking violence in her home. "I'm sorry," he began.

"You're sorry," she echoed.

He thrilled to the spark of defiance in it, misdirected though it was. It meant he stood a chance of reaching her, that she wasn't helplessly numbed by years of suppressants--or, worse: Pylene-50. Probably the Federation exempted the families of their "elite", as Captain Malkar had surely been... "Yes, this isn't at all how I intended to do this. The last thing I wanted was to frighten you out of your wits. To be honest, I didn't mean for you to realize who I was. Now that you have, we have an added problem, but we'll deal with that later." Again, that look of unadulterated terror. Good God, did she imagine he was contemplating killing her to silence her? He'd not even done _that_ to Arlen... "Relax," he said forcefully. "You're safe. And I came here to give you good news."

"Really?" Her voice dripped with skepticism. "This household hasn't had any good news for quite some time now. I lost my husband in a space accident 6 weeks ago."

"That's what I'm here about," Blake said. "I have information about that 'accident.'"

"But how could you?" Mirabel demanded. "How could you possibly? No one knows what happened. There was a distress call from the ship, and then it blew up before anyone could get there to help."

Blake knew how fantastic what he had to say was going to sound. So he'd come prepared to back it up with evidence worthy of Kerr Avon. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a tape machine. "Listen," he directed. He flicked the playback switch, and a voice from the past came into the room:

"This is Captain Malkar of the space freighter _Zebulon_ calling any space vehicle or rescue-capable base within range of my voice. We're 2000 spacials from the planet Iridian in the Argulian star system, coordinates 006.713. We have experienced a malfunction in the ship's main drives. Pressure is building rapidly. Explosion is imminent. Does anyone read me? Over."

As she listened to the tape, Mirabel's eyes filled with tears, and her hands covered her mouth. "Why are you playing this for me?" she sobbed. "How can you be so cruel?"

"Listen!" Blake commanded again and advanced the tape. "XK-61, this is Captain Malkar en route from Gauda Prime to Ryanec 5. We have critical pressure in the ship's main drives. I have a crew of six. We're minutes away from total disintegration. Over."

"Wait a minute," Mirabel said suddenly. "Where did that come from? How could you have that tape?"

"I made it," Blake answered.

"You--"

"I was on board the _Zebulon_ when it was recorded."

'But everyone on board the _Zebulon_ died," the woman insisted.

"Listen once more," Blake invited softly. "Listen to the voice." He pressed the button again.

"XK-61, this is _Zebulon_ ," gasped the speaker. "No time to launch life capsules. Please advise our home base on Ryanec 5 of what has happened. We thank you for--"

"It's not him!" Mirabel exclaimed, finally understanding. "That's not my husband! That's not his voice!" She was amazed now that she hadn't realized it from the first, but grief and expectation had conspired to confound her.

"No, it certainly isn't," Blake confirmed. "And as I was on the ship when that message was sent, and as I am sitting here beside you unquestionably alive, you will perhaps believe me when I tell you that the _Zebulon_ was never destroyed."

"Not--destroyed..."

"No. The whole thing was a hoax. I'm not prepared to disclose the purpose of the hoax, but I am prepared to tell you that your husband is alive and unharmed."

Alive? She mouthed the word soundlessly, her throat momentarily incapable of sound. "Alive?" she finally forced out.

"And unharmed," Blake repeated.

"Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Oh, my God!" In an uncontrolled spasm of joy, Mirabel threw her arms around the bearer of those glad tidings. Blake returned her hug with a full heart, completely beyond all considerations of war or politics. And was jolted back to those mundane realities when, an instant later, she slapped him hard across the face.

He said nothing at first, just stood there, touching the spot which stung from her blow. Her face was now contorted into a hideous mask of hatred. "You vile, despicable--"

"Wait a minute," he protested.

"You stole my husband's ship!" His eyes widened in spontaneous amusement at her seemingly perverted hierarchy of values. The amusement only added fuel to the fire of her anger, as an even greater revelation hit her. "You have my husband!"

"No," Blake said honestly.

"But you know who does."

"I know where he is--yes."

Her demeanor switched from hostile to petitioning. "Tell me."

"I can't," Blake said. "I can only tell you that he's safe and being properly looked after."

Again she swung to the opposite pole. "I'll bet!"

"I was hoping you might want to send him a message."

"You were hoping _what_?"

"Look, we have a problem here," Blake endeavored to explain. "Of the six crew members on the _Zebulon_ at the time our people--acquired it, three were killed during the--acquisition."

"You do have a way with words," Mirabel muttered.

"Of the remaining three, two were unattached men with no surviving relatives--families killed during the Intergalactic War, I believe. But then there was your husband, a man in the prime of his life with a wife and four children. I was determined from the instant I learned of it to make sure you knew he was alive."

"Why?"

"Because I'm a human being."

"I need proof of that."

"I beg your pardon. I thought I had just given you some." Mirabel blushed slightly. "That wasn't my only goal, however," Blake continued. "You may know he's alive, and he may eventually come to believe that you know it, but you're still separated. That's why I want you to send him a message explaining the advantage of forming new allegiances." Mirabel backed away, a look of horror on her face. "I don't think you understand," Blake persisted. "I'm offering you a chance to be together again as a family."

The woman eyed him warily. "This 'offer' hasn't been put to my husband?"

"Of course it has."

"And he's refused."

"So far, yes."

"I can imagine how hard you've tried to persuade him," Mirabel said.

"I told you, he's not being abused."

"You're certain of that."

"I know the people who are looking after him. I know their leader. That's not her way."

"Nor yours, I suppose."

"Of course not."

Once more Mirabel erupted like a cornered animal. "No, your way is if you can't convince the husband, try leaning on his wife. She'll be vulnerable after all this time by herself, thinking he's dead. She'll be so relieved to learn he isn't that nothing else will matter. She'll cast aside honor, deal with criminals, beseech him in the name of their love and their children to give in to terrorists."

"I'm sorry you see it that way," Blake said quietly.

"How did you think I'd see it?" Mirabel hissed.  "You want me to seduce my husband away from his duty!"

"Yes," Blake admitted.

"No!" the woman refused.

She sat down once more, but this time he remained on his feet, instinctively throwing the presence of his person behind the passion of his argument. "Do you know what his 'duty' was? Do you know what those cargo ships carried? Did _he_ know what they carried?"

"Does it matter?" was the deflating retort.

Blake felt the crushing weight of a dozen variations on the theme of futility closing in on him at once: Sarkoff too tired to fight the Federation, Ro too brainwashed to, countless hundreds too frightened to... Then he reminded himself that Sarkoff ultimately _had_ , and that Ro ultimately _had_ , and that there'd been Kasabi and Le Grand, and that there _was_ Veron and Avalon and Del Grant and Bek... No, he wasn't going to give up on this one so easily...

At that moment, a low, steady rumbling shook the room. Blake and Mirabel looked at each other. "Tremor?" he queried.

"You know about that?" she countered.

"Ved mentioned something." So had Orac during Blake's initial research about the planet.

The shaking grew stronger. "The house was damaged last time," Mirabel said, springing to her feet. "It's not safe to remain inside. I must get the children."

He followed her up the steps, and the three older children met them at the top of the staircase, clearly familiar enough with the phenomenon to already know what was required. "Where's JoJo?" Mirabel demanded anxiously.

"In his crib in his room," Ved replied. "He was cranky. I put him down for a nap."

The strongest tremor yet shook the house, throwing all five of them off balance. As they regained their footing, the ceiling above them cracked, and a beam came tumbling down, totally blocking passage across the hallway to the baby's room.

"Downstairs now, children," their mother commanded sharply. "Downstairs and outside and away from the house."

With a nervous glance in her direction, Ved took his brother's arm in one hand and his sister's in the other and nudged them on to safety.

Mirabel was already pushing against the fallen beam, but it was clear as Blake moved up beside her that she hadn't the strength to dislodge it. "You go, too," he urged. "I'll get the baby."

"Are you mad?" she shot back. "I'm not leaving here without my son."

"Use your head, Woman! This ceiling could collapse at any time. You've got three other children who need you. Now go!"

The forcefulness of his command, coupled with the reference to Ved and Gar and Mara somehow had the desired effect. Mirabel scrambled down the steps, scarcely believing her own behavior, astonished beyond reckoning at her _de facto_ expression of trust in this lunatic terrorist.

Blake knelt down and pushed against the beam with all his might.  He could see the crack above him widening as the tremors continued, and he could hear Mirabel's infant son, now awake, screaming in the other room. He cast off his hood and jacket as added encumbrances, wished mightily for a sudden miraculous appearance by the late Olag Gan, and heaved. The beam gave way--as did a huge chunk of plaster from overhead. It narrowly missed falling on him as he tore through the bedroom door and snatched the terrified, crying JoJo from his crib.

There was a blanket in the crib; Blake grabbed that, too, and wrapped it around the child for added protection, all the while whispering soothing words of reassurance, promises to take the tot to his mother. But before he could get JoJo and himself back out the door, a powerful culminating tremor shattered the entire glass plate window lining the nearby wall.

Instinctively Blake dropped to the floor, laid the baby in the blanket on the floor, and crouched protectively over him. Glass was flying everywhere, along with other assorted debris. Blake supported his weight on his elbows to avoid crushing the infant, as what felt like a hundred sharp arrows ripped through the shirt on his back and pierced his flesh. He clenched his teeth together tightly to keep from crying out. JoJo was wailing enough for both of them, and the last thing the baby needed was to see the only available adult out of control...

After that, there were no more tremors; the episode was evidently at an end. Out in the street neighbors were milling about, but Mirabel and her children didn't join them. They kept their eyes glued to the front door of their house, as it slowly swung open, and watched with joy as a man in a badly tattered shirt, covered from head to toe with plaster and filth, clutching a bawling bundle to his breast, staggered out into the sunlight.

*****

In his dream the carimbula always got Blake first. Bound helplessly hand and foot to a tree trunk, he watched in horror as his friend/rival/teacher/nemesis flicked those fangs-dripping-death from the feast of his body promised to it by Servalan--only to feel that ravenous mouth bite into his own tender flesh. Blake sank to the ground, weighted with the knowledge of the inevitability of his own death. His eyes met Avon's, and though they were already starting to cloud over with the pain of the first drops of venom flowing through his veins, they contained not a shred of resentment or reproach, only a terrible joy, unbearable for Avon to behold, a proclamation of victory...

In the time-distorted world of a dream, hours unfolded in minutes--yet _felt_ like hours. Blake couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't scream. Blake's bladder and bowels had poured out their contents onto the ground, and he lay in a pool of his own urine and excrement, struggling to draw one last, labored, tortured breath. Only it _wasn't_ "the last." It went on and on and on...

Die, Avon thought passionately. Why don't you die already? Please, please, die, my brother. And he exhausted himself, straining at the ropes which bound him, desperate to break free so he could set Blake free, so he could pick up Blake's gun and put a bullet through his brain... And as Blake finally, finally ceased breathing, the carimbula reappeared. It leaped up into the air and landed on his face and spat its poison into his eyes, like Shrinker's laser probe...

Avon awoke in a cold sweat, relieved to discover he was in a sleep cubicle on the _Zebulon_ , all by himself on the ship where he'd fallen asleep in the wee hours of the morning after spending the night repairing a fault in the navigation system.

In reality it hadn't happened that way, of course. In reality he'd managed to talk Blake down from his wild, desperate, sacrificial scheme. Talk him into shooting the bloody viper instead, then talk him through that shooting, as Blake uncharacteristically froze at the prospect of planting his bullet in Avon.

But talking Blake out of--or into--anything was a singular rarity. Far more frequently the stubborn idealist plowed ahead without regard for anyone's attempt to temper his decisions with so dreary a thing as common sense. Today's escapade was a case in point: Blake just couldn't be swayed from his adamant determination to "make right" the untidy little loose end which the staged destruction of the _Zebulon_ had created. The image of a woman he'd never met weeping for her lost mate--the prospect of her four children believing themselves orphaned--preyed on his tender conscience until a concept like "rational risk assessment" lost all relevance, and jeopardy was embraced with the fervent joy of a lover.

"Well, he's met them by now," Avon declared, looking at his chrono. "Let's just hope there were no unforeseen complications." In truth, this little excursion into madness looked like sanity itself when compared to the one Blake was planning next. More precisely, the one _after_ "next"--since "next" was the run to Helotrix to retrieve sufficient Pylene-50 antidote to immunize Blake and Deva and Docholli, something Avon fully endorsed, even if he didn't endorse _taking_ Deva along. But _after_ Helotrix, Blake was planning the Big One--the current moral equivalent of the campaign to destroy Star One: Blake was planning to take on the entire Federation Pacification and Control Programme by infiltrating the Pylene-50 manufacturing plant here on Ryanec and surreptitiously neutralizing the drug at its source.

Blake hadn't actually announced his intentions of _being_ the one to _do_ the "infiltrating" until after they'd arrived on Ryanec, hadn't disclosed to the group as a whole his scheme to have Docholli surgically alter his face and fingerprints until it was too late for anyone to opt out of the plan. Of course Docholli had been told _his_ part when Blake first recruited the doctor. And Avon had guessed from the start _who_ the unfortunate protagonist of this suicidal melodrama would be. "The fool wouldn't send anyone else. I'll give him that." To Avon's _waking_ mind, Blake was always "the fool", frequently "rival" or "nemesis", and only in rare moments of excruciating honesty "mentor" or "friend." And never, ever "my brother"...

A voice came over the base-to-ship intercom. "Avon, are you awake?"

"Yes, Tarrant, what is it?"

"I just thought you'd want to know--Blake isn't back yet, and he hasn't called in."

"Have you tried calling _him_?"

"No, I didn't think we should--not knowing exactly what he might be doing or who he might be with."

"Yes, that's probably wise." Avon paused a moment, then heaved a sigh. "All right, I'm coming down."

*****

Blake handed JoJo to his mother, who kissed him repeatedly as she stripped off the blanket and examined him to make sure he wasn't injured. The other three children beamed their relief and cast shy, tentative glances of gratitude in Blake's direction. He stroked the heads of the two younger ones fondly, as his eyes met Mirabel's in a belated request for permission.

She nodded consent, then seemed to realize she'd created a confusion which needed to be dispelled. "Children," she said quietly, "this man saved your brother's life."

Ved looked distressed. "But you said--"

"It seems I may have been wrong--hasty in my judgement. I mistook him for someone else, a very bad man from a made-up story."

"It was, Mirabel--a made-up story," Blake declared.

"I hope so," she murmured.

Now Blake bent over to fish something out of that heavy jacket he'd taken off upstairs, yet stopped to retrieve on the way out. They couldn't see what it was, only that he sighed with relief to discover it hadn't been crushed by the falling debris. And Mirabel saw something else. "Blake, your back!" she exclaimed.

"Sh," he commanded crossly, for there were still neighbors in the street not that far away.

"I'm sorry," she said, lowering her voice, careful not to repeat his name. "But your back--"

"It's nothing," he assured her. "The window in the baby's room shattered. Some of the glass went flying around. That's all."

Mirabel examined JoJo again. "There's not a scratch on him," she marvelled. Then the realization of what had happened hit her. "You shielded him with your body. Why?" An inexplicable edge of hostility had crept back into her voice.

"I only did what you would have done, Mirabel," Blake replied.

"But I'm his mother. He's my child. _Why_?" There was actual desperation in the question this time.

"As you just said--he's a child. Oh, come now, you're not going to tell me you wouldn't have done the same for another woman's child."

"Well, of course, _I_ would have--"

Finally he understood. "Oh, I see. I'm not supposed to feel that way."

"No, you're not."

"And it's causing you no end of consternation to discover that I do." His grin loomed like an arrogant act of trespass into the privacy of her rapidly crumbling illusion.

"You're _enjoying_ this!" she exclaimed.

"Yes--yes, I am," he admitted.

"Sadist!" The word escaping her lips brought spots of shame to her cheeks as she gazed once more at the evidence challenging her lifelong view of the universe etched in his back. "You must be in agony," she mumbled.

"There is some pain," he conceded. "But it's not a serious injury. It can be easily attended to when we get where we're going."

Her head shot up swiftly. "Where _we're_ going?"

"Yes, I've decided the solution to the problem of your knowing who I am is for you all to return to my base with me as my guests."

Mirabel wrapped her arms more tightly around JoJo. "Ved, take Gar and Mara and go stand by the gate to the front yard."

"But, Mother--" the boy protested.

"Do it now, Ved."

"Yes, Mother."

As soon as the children were out of earshot, Mirabel turned on Blake. "And if we don't _want_ to be your 'guests'?"

"I'm afraid you haven't any choice."

She said the first thing that popped into her head. "The children will be missed at school."

"Not for the next 53 time units," Blake replied.

"This is kidnapping!" she burst out.

"Oh, I dislike the word kidnapping."

"And I dislike the word 'guests' when it's used as a euphemism for 'prisoners'."

He motioned her back towards the rest of the family, picking up his jacket again. He hadn't bothered to put it back on because the thick, powdery dust on his face made an even better disguise than the hood had done. The streets were starting to empty out as people returned to their homes; still, all it would take to send someone running to the authorities was one witness... "Behind the house," he ordered.

They obeyed him as if he'd been pointing a weapon at them, it striking Mirabel explicitly for the first time that she'd yet to _see_ a weapon. Surely Blake hadn't walked into the heart of a Federation stronghold unarmed? Now he handed her the item he'd extracted from his jacket earlier. "Put this on, please."

"What is it?"

"It's called a teleport bracelet. It's our way out of here back to my base." She noticed that he'd slipped an identical one around his own wrist and was reaching into the jacket for several more.

Fear gripped the pit of her stomach and rose into her throat. "You have no right--" she whimpered.

"Put the bloody thing on!" he thundered. Gar flinched, and Mara began to cry. Not wanting to cause the youngsters additional alarm, Mirabel did as she was told. "Now put these on the children." He ignored the desperate entreaty in her eyes as she complied with his instructions. "No, not the baby," he said, as she was about to bracelet JoJo. "There's too great a risk of its falling off. Just hold him close to you. Make sure your arms go completely around him." She floundered a bit. "No, like this," Blake corrected, physically repositioning her. He seemed oblivious to the liberty he was taking in touching her so familiarly. But there certainly wasn't the slightest hint of lechery in it either.

"All right," he said when they were all properly braceleted. "Now, I'm going to hold onto Gar and Mara since you can't--it's okay--it's just so they won't be frightened. The sensation can be a little disorienting the first time."

"What about--?" Mirabel glanced towards her oldest son.

Blake turned to him. "Ved," he said, "we're going to take a little trip. It will be very fast. One minute we're here--the next, we'll be someplace else. Someplace safe, away from all this tremor business, with friends. Okay?"

"Okay," the boy agreed.

"There's nothing to be afraid of," Blake continued, "but it's all right if you are."

"I'm not afraid," Ved declared.

"Good," Blake said, patting him on the shoulder. He glanced around one final time to make sure no one was observing them. "Everybody ready? Mara, give me your hand. Gar, as soon as I finish talking into my bracelet here, you take my other hand. Understand?" The boy looked to his mother for her approval and Mirabel nodded, so he shook his head yes.

"All right, here we go then." Mirabel tightened her grip on JoJo, as the rebel leader raised his wrist to his mouth. "Blake to base," he said in a low, authoritative voice. "I'm ready to come back. I'm bringing some new friends with me. Lock onto five bracelets, and have Docholli standing by to administer a spot of first aid. Bring us across."

*****

"Bringing them across--now," said Tarrant carefully, as Docholli came hurrying into the room from one direction, and Deva and Soolin entered from the other. Dayna and Vila had already been with Tarrant when he'd summoned Avon from the _Zebulon_.

Figures began materializing in the teleport bay. Avon clutched at the shirt of the man standing beside him. "Vila," he said in a sick voice, "tell me you slipped a hallucinogen into my serving of soup last night."

"Tell you I did _what_?" the thief responded.

"Tell me I'm not seeing what I think I'm seeing."

"Where?"

"There." Avon pointed disbelievingly at the new arrivals.

"It's just Blake," Vila said matter-of-factly. But his tone became progressively less matter-of-fact as he continued. "And a woman--and a little boy--and another little boy--and a little girl--and a baby..."

Avon stared, momentarily speechless. "I don't believe it," he said finally. "I _do_ believe it. He's brought the whole bloody Malkar family back with him!"

Ved stepped off the teleport platform and looked all around with widening eyes. "Wow!" he emitted.

"I think that means he approves," Blake said mischievously, glancing at Mirabel. He still had Gar and Mara's little hands clutched in his big ones. The woman breathed a sigh containing equal parts of relief and resignation. For the moment it sufficed to know that her children had made it through the bizarre experience unharmed and apparently untraumatized.

Avon sauntered over to them and eyed the rebel leader from head to toe. "You look terrible," he declared.

"Why, thank you, Avon," Blake responded. "This is Avon, Mirabel," he added. "Try not to judge him by first impressions. And this is Tarrant, our pilot, Dayna, our weapons expert, Soolin, our top-notch gunfighter, Deva, our master record-keeper--well, except for Orac--you'll meet Orac later--Docholli, our temporary surgeon-in-residence, and Vila, our--" he faltered momentarily, "entrance and acquisitions man. Everyone, I'd like you to meet Mirabel Malkar, her daughter Mara and her sons, Ved, Gar and JoJo."

"Hello, JoJo," Dayna beamed, going straight for the baby. "May I hold him?"

Mirabel smiled despite herself. "Sure." And it was good to be able to rest her arms a bit.

"Dayna, why don't you and Soolin show our guests to their quarters?" Blake suggested. "Let them pick a suite of rooms to their liking, something private with its own bathing facilities. They need to clean up and rest, I think, and Mirabel needs to have an important conversation with her children alone."

"Thank you, Blake," the woman said sincerely.

At that point Docholli raised and tapped on his little black bag. "Who's my patient this time?" In answer, the rebel leader turned around and showed the doctor his back.

Avon saw Docholli react, so he decided to have a look, too. For the briefest instant, sympathy flickered in his eyes, then he quickly masked it. "Serves you right," he muttered.

Mirabel gasped, but Blake merely flashed Avon a playful grin and retorted, "You're just jealous."

And Docholli smiled to himself as if this were a well-established game he'd grown used to witnessing. "Let's go up to the Medical Unit on the ship," he suggested.

"The ship?" Mirabel echoed.

Blake nodded an affirmative reply to her unstated question. "I'll show you later if you like," he offered, adding, "and I'll tell you all about the cargo it used to carry. And you _will_ listen."

Now it was her turn to nod. "Come this way, please," Soolin invited. Dayna was still carrying JoJo. Mirabel and the older children followed the two women down a long corridor.

"I don't think I like that one called Avon," erupted from Mirabel.

Soolin smiled. "You have a lot of company."

"I'll bet Blake doesn't like him much."

"Don't bet anything valuable," Dayna advised, grinning.

They'd arrived at a configuration of rooms containing several beds with privacy curtains between them, a bath-and-shower area, and a small kitchenette. "Will this do?" Soolin asked.

"Yes, all right," Mirabel agreed.

Dayna put JoJo down, the other children started sitting on the beds to decide who wanted which, and Soolin showed their mother how to work the door controls and intercom. "We'll leave you to yourselves now," she concluded graciously.

"Thank you," Mirabel said, feeling oddly split between a sliver of genuine gratitude and a still-lingering preponderance of righteous indignation. For the news of her husband's survival, she was grateful. For the life of her baby and the risk taken to safeguard that life, she was immeasurably grateful. But she didn't want to be here, and Blake's matter-of-fact characterization of his entourage frightened the living daylights out of her. Still the "weapons expert" had cooed over JoJo like any normal woman of child-bearing age, and the "top-notch gunfighter" had exhibited impeccable manners...

Well, all that would have to wait until later. Right now she had something far more important on her mind, a joyful task to perform already too long delayed. She called her children to her side, gathered them in her loving embrace, and gently, carefully proceeded to heal the terrible hurt in their hearts.

*****

Soolin and Dayna returned to the teleport area to find the others still there. "They're getting settled in," Soolin announced.

"Marvelous," Avon muttered.

Blake glanced at him, but said nothing. "I thought you two would be on your way to the Medical Unit by now," Dayna remarked.

"Fearless Leader decided to wait until you returned with your good news," the computer expert told her.

"All right, Avon," Blake responded finally. "What's eating you?"

"You've really lost it this time, Blake," was the reply.

"If you have a complaint, spell it out."

" _If_ I have a complaint? Yes, I have a complaint. You've just brought a pack of God-damn civilians onto this base!"

Blake laughed. "Is that all? Avon--they don't know where they are."

" _You_ don't know where you are. And I ought to have my head examined for remaining within a million spacials of where you are." He rose noisily to his feet. "You'd better not have put that infant within hearing range of my quarters," he warned menacingly and stomped out.

"Don't worry," Dayna called after him. "I wouldn't do that to the poor child."

Now Blake stood up, too. "All right, let's go," he said to Docholli.

"Do you need me?" Soolin asked the surgeon.

"Not this time," he answered with a smile.

"Oh, Deva," Blake said suddenly, turning back, oblivious to Tarrant and Vila exchanging glances of amusement at his continued lack of urgency regarding his wounds, "did you contact your cousin like I asked you to?"

"Yes, everything's fine," Deva assured him.

"Ship ready to go?" he inquired next of Tarrant.

"Avon repaired the final fault in the navigation system last night," the pilot replied.

Docholli sighed and tapped his foot impatiently. "All right. I'm coming. I'm coming," Blake said. "Now, all of you who _aren't_ going to Helotrix, I want you to put forth a special effort to make the Malkars feel at home. And don't be stingy about sharing  Federation horror stories with them, if you know what I mean."

"We know what you mean, Blake," Dayna laughed.

"But not a word about Avalon or Iridian."

"We understand," Soolin assured him.

"She may ask," he pointed out. "She may even plead."

"Don't worry," Vila said. "We'll be totally heartless."

"Yes, we'll practice playing Avon," Deva chimed in, infected with the spirit of it.

"You're not even going to be here, remember?" Blake told him.

"Damn!" he muttered, snapping his fingers.

"Blake--" Docholli called to him again.

"Yes, yes, all right. Honestly, all this fuss over a few pieces of broken glass..."

*****

"Ouch!" he exclaimed, lying naked on the examining table, as Docholli pressed up and down his spine, searching for the most accessible shard. He looked human again now with all the plaster and grime washed off his face and the clothes he'd been wearing dispatched to the automatic cleaning unit.

"The first piece comes out the old-fashioned way," the doctor informed him. "After that, it should be smooth sailing. Would you like me to give you a local?" Blake gestured dismissively. "No, I don't imagine a man who's been through Federation torture would cringe at the prospect of having a fragment of glass extracted from his back."

"Better extracted than inserted," Blake said wryly. "Ow!"

"All done." Docholli held up the blood-stained specimen, wiped it clean and placed it in the analyzer unit. While the machine did its work, he swabbed the open wound with alcohol. Blake caught his breath. "That should be the worst of it," the doctor declared. He removed the piece of glass from the analyzer, fed the information gleaned into the magnetic suction unit, and then let the mechanical arm of the robotic instrument go to work. Knowing the precise physical and chemical make-up of the objects it was searching for, it moved up and down over the patient's back, pinpointing each one and drawing it out with no more discomfort than the slight sting of an elastic band snapping. Docholli followed along, painlessly closing each puncture wound with a drop of sterile sealant.

Blake lay with his chin resting on his hands and mused aloud, "I wish we'd had one of these machines with us on Gauda Prime that time we had to clean out Avon's wound."

"Yes, that must have been awful," the doctor agreed.

"Did Avon describe it to you?"

"What Soolin did?"

"What Servalan did."

"Yes--reluctantly. He accepted that I needed to know for purposes of medical treatment, but he didn't like talking about it."

"He's never talked about it to me," the rebel leader said pensively. "How long did it take, do you suppose, to open the wound up that way?"

"A long time, Blake."

"How many jabs?"

"With a tree branch?  Dozens--at least."

"Was he conscious the whole time?"

"He says yes."

"God..." Blake shuddered, but Docholli knew it wasn't from the cold of the air on his bare flesh.

"All right, you can sit up now." He swung the arm of the robot out of the way, turned off the machine and handed Blake some fresh clothes. "She knew what she was doing, that woman. She didn't want him to pass out. She paused between her pokes so that she _wouldn't_ drive him into unconsciousness and so that his nervous system couldn't accommodate to the pain, couldn't numb out. Each jab represented another moment of choice, of choosing _not_ to choose the relief his whole body must have been screaming for."

Dressed now, Blake remained sitting on the examining table, his legs dangling over the edge, his mind imaginatively reliving Avon's agony. Docholli laid a gentle hand on his shoulder and asked, "Why do you do this to yourself?"

"Because I don't know how not to!" The answer seemed to rise from the depths of Blake's soul. He shouted it out, but the doctor knew that it was a shout of anguish, not anger. And that it summarized the entire essence of Blake's crusade, the paradox of the consummate freedom fighter who was himself _compelled_ to serve his vision, a helpless slave to his own capacity to feel the suffering of others.

"He loves you, Son," Docholli said quietly. He was careful never to address Blake that way except when they were alone together, for he was more cognizant of the "leader's" status than the leader himself seemed to be, and more protective of it.

"I know that, Docholli," Blake replied. "And he knows it, too, now, and it drives him crazy. He doesn't _want_ to love me." There was a long pause. "Well," he said, changing the subject, "can we talk about after Helotrix?"

"The surgery, you mean."

"Right. Have you worked out all the details?"

"Pretty much." Docholli flicked a switch, and a computer image of Blake's face appeared on the Medical Unit's vis-screen. "Here are the changes I'm planning to make." One by one the doctor manipulated the individual squares comprising the image until an entirely different face stared back at them. "I don't know if you were counting, but that was ten discrete alterations."

"Only ten?"

"Yes, I want to keep it as simple as possible so that I can reverse the procedure afterward with maximum odds of getting it right. The finger and palm prints I'm thinking we'll leave. Not only would a second series of skin grafts in so sensitive an area be especially painful and risk added loss of manual dexterity, but why not leave the Federation's record of Roj Blake's identity markers permanently in error?"

"Or at least until they catch me again," Blake laughed.

"There is one more thing--the voice print. I can alter your voice by altering your vocal cords, but I can't guarantee that I'll be able to restore your original voice pattern with total fidelity."

A momentary shadow crossed Blake's countenance. He was a man more identified with his voice than with his face, for the sound of that voice had swayed multitudes and individuals alike. Had swayed Docholli, in fact... The thought that he might never wield that voice again caused a twinge of anticipatory grief, sharp and piercing. Then he shrugged. "You'll try your best. If you can't, so be it."

"You're absolutely sure you want to go through with this?" Docholli's conscience protested at what he was being asked to do. It felt too uncomfortably akin to what he'd been forced to do by the Federation to others: Mutilate their identity.

Blake's eyes gazed into a realm of memory and imagination where the cybersurgeon could not follow, saw what suppressant drugs had done to the dome-dwellers of Earth, what drugs like shadow had done to the Beks and Hannahs of the galaxy, what Pylene-50 _was_ doing to the inhabitants of dozens of Federation-dominated worlds... Then those eyes gazed into Docholli's eyes, dispelling the doubt lurking there like a laser beam cutting through steel. "Oh, yes," he breathed passionately. "I'm sure."

 

III

 

"We'll be within teleport range in 35 minutes," Tarrant announced. The flight to Helotrix using the _Zebulon_ 's photonic drive had taken them just under two days, the planet being located in the same sector as Ryanec, albeit on the opposite edge of that sector.

"Exactly how do you come to have a cousin who's a Helot, Deva?" Avon inquired.

"My ancestors were among the first colonists from Earth to settle on Helotrix," Deva replied. "My parents' branch of the family emigrated to Gauda Prime two generations ago."

"Only two? I'm surprised you're not more of a warrior type, then."

Blake threw Avon a disapproving look, but Deva seemed untroubled by the remark. "They emigrated to _get away_ from the bellicosity," he said simply. "They preferred farming."

Avon smiled. "Ah, that explains it then."

Blake shifted uneasily in his seat, his body language continuing to broadcast silent censure.

"And how does your cousin happen to be working as the chief computer technician at Magnetrix?" Tarrant asked.

"That's a bit more complicated," Deva said. "You know about the Federation's destruction of the university at Liedenbrank, don't you?"

"Eighteen thousand defenders slaughtered when they refused to surrender," Tarrant recounted.

"Typical Helot stupidity," put in Avon. "Something in the genes, no doubt. You should get on well with Hunda, Blake."

"I fully expect to," the rebel leader said.

"Maron was on the computer science faculty there," Deva continued. "A colleague of Hunda's. When the surrender option was offered, he took it. Walked out and turned himself in to the Federation, while those who chose to stay and fight jeered him with taunts of 'traitor' and 'coward'."

"This is the dependable ally we're going to meet?"

"It was a set-up, Avon," Blake cut in, "a pretense to win the Federation's trust so that Maron could worm his way into precisely the position he now holds. Hunda was in on it from the start."

"Ah, yes, a set-up," the other mused. "It must be nice when your associates know about your set-ups _before_ they walk into them, don't you think?"

Blake looked annoyed.

"Hunda was the _only_ one who knew," Deva concluded. "That chorus of 'coward' and 'traitor' was real enough. It takes courage for most people to let others wrongfully despise them for the sake of a higher cause, but you wouldn't know anything about that."

"No, I wouldn't," Avon agreed.

"How can we be sure your cousin is still reliable, though?" Tarrant asked. "How do we know he hasn't been--'adapted'?"

"Because the Federation would see no need for it," Deva answered.

"Because Hunda's still alive," Avon answered.

Blake was eyeing the _Zebulon_ 's instrument panel. "We're just outside the range of the Magnetrix detectors," he said. "Better call your cousin now, Deva. Make sure he's blinded the terminal's scanners to the orbit we're supposed to assume."

"Right." As Deva contacted Maron, Blake and Avon moved towards the teleport, scooping up a generous handful of extra bracelets on the way. The plan called for the three of them to teleport directly into the planet's central communications center, to an automated area not normally staffed by human personnel. Maron, having assured protection to the _Zebulon_ , would also neutralize the facility's intruder detection system--would already have done so, in fact, since Hunda and six of his rebels were presumably already there. The six would be teleported up to the ship for transportation to the planet Wanta on the way back to Ryanec. Wanta had been the next target after Helotrix in the recolonization program, and Hunda's men were going there to train a cadre of resisters in the combat techniques which even now kept Helotrix from being a complete success for the Federation. In exchange, Hunda was to hand over the remaining supply of Pylene-50 antidote to Blake.

All of this had to be completed within an hour--starting from the time Hunda's men were smuggled into the terminal. Because once an hour the computers at Federation Security Headquarters contacted the computers at Magnetrix--at which point they would immediately be able to detect the bit of sabotage Maron had worked...

"Okay, it's all set," Deva reported. "Hunda's people have been there for 40 minutes. That gives us just under twenty." He put on his bracelet and joined the other two.

"Put us down, Tarrant," Blake instructed.

They materialized in a room lined wall-to-wall with computers, their guns drawn.  On the opposite side of the room stood seven rugged-looking men dressed in outdoor garb, _their_ guns drawn. Between the two groups stood a skinny, cerebral individual in a lab coat. He immediately walked towards Deva, who holstered his gun and embraced him. In a matter of seconds, all the other weapons likewise disappeared.

"Hunda," said Maron, drawing the Helot leader forward.

"Blake," said Deva, presenting his leader.

The two shook hands, and a look of instant solidarity passed between them.

"We have to hurry," Blake said, starting to pass out the extra teleport bracelets.

Avon was staring at one of the computers. "This is the main data bank link to Federation Headquarters, isn't it?"

"That's right," Maron confirmed. "Deva's told me about you, Avon."

"Get me into it."

"What?"

"Get me into it. I'm going to download the contents onto Orac."

"But you've no idea what a massive amount of information--"

"On the contrary."

"But some of it's trivia. _Most_ of it's trivia. It will take your computer days, if not weeks, to sort and analyze it."

Avon smiled. "That's all right. Orac loves a challenge."

"Suit yourself." Maron started pushing buttons.

"Help me, Deva," Avon requested.

On the other side of the room, the bracelet distribution was completed. "Tarrant," Blake said into his communicator, "six to teleport." As the men bound for Wanta dematerialized, he turned to Hunda. "All right, now the antidote." The Helot hesitated. "Come on, come on, we've less than ten minutes."

Hunda took a deep breath. "I'm afraid there's a problem, Blake."

 

Avon and Deva worked fast and furiously, while Maron nervously eyed his chrono. None of them paid the slightest attention to the drama unfolding at the far end of the room.

"What kind of problem?" Blake demanded.

"I don't have exactly what you're expecting me to have."

"I think you'd better explain that."

"My first responsibility is to the men who follow me, Blake."

"Your first responsibility is the rebellion!"

"Sending those fighters to Wanta will aid the rebellion."

"And that gives you the right to lie--to trick me into coming here under false pretenses?"

"I had a teacher at Liedenbrank named Igin, Blake. About a year ago I sent him to his death. I didn't know I was doing it, but I was responsible all the same. Do you know how that feels?"

Blake thought of Gan. "Yes. Yes, I do. But I still don't see what that has to do with pretending you broke into Forbus's lab after his death and recovered the rest of the antidote."

"No, no, we _did_ break into the lab. We _did_ recover the rest of the antidote. It's just that I've used most of it since then to immunize my own recruits."

"Like those men I just agreed to fly to Wanta."

"Yes."

With a sigh Blake pressed his thumb and index finger to his forehead. "You're telling me you've none of the antidote left."

"I didn't say that," Hunda hastened to respond. "I didn't say 'none.' Just--less."

Blake gave him a cold, penetrating stare. "Exactly how much is 'less'?"

*****

There was still a full three minutes to go before the scheduled Security Headquarters--Magnetrix link when the first alarm sounded. Four guns came whipping out of their holsters simultaneously, as Blake spun around. "What the hell--?"

"I don't understand," Maron protested. "That shouldn't have happened."

"Well, it _did_ happen," Avon snarled, turning on him. "If you've double-crossed us--"

"I haven't. I swear it," Maron cried.

Another set of alarms went off, different in pitch. "What's that?" Blake demanded.

"Automatic launch of interceptors," Maron answered. "Warn your ship off."

"But I thought--" Avon started.

"It's overridden what I've done!" the technician gasped in disbelief. He was already undoing his now useless blinding of the outer space detectors in anticipation of the imminent arrival of security forces.

"Blake to Tarrant," the rebel leader called frantically. "Move off station now."

The pilot's voice came back over the communicator. "What's going on down there?"

"No time to explain," Blake shouted. "Just do it."

"Blake, we should have teleported!" Avon screamed.

"And left these two to face God knows what alone?"

"That's awfully good of you, Blake," Hunda said quietly.

"We're not through yet, you and I," Blake retorted.

" _My_ best chance is to bluff it out here," Maron said. "Your best chance is to hide."

"Where?" Deva asked.

His cousin thought a moment. "Separate," he suggested. "Scatter through the building. Take the old service lift to different floors."

"Old service lift?" Avon echoed.

"This place used to be a refinery," Maron said. "There's an abandoned warehouse out back where no one ever goes. But be careful. There's all sorts of loose machinery lying about."

"Follow me, I know the way," Hunda said, taking off. Blake herded Deva and Avon ahead of him and slipped from the room just as four Federation security guards came bursting through the other door.

Maron assumed the most matter-of-fact posture he could manage, even smiling at the gun-toting, uniformed arrivals.

"What caused that alarm?" asked the trooper in charge.

"I've no idea," the technician answered. "I'm checking for a fault in the system right now."

"Our whole fleet of interceptors went on full alert."

"I know. I'm sure it's just a computer glitch."

One of the guards was listening to a transmission over his communicator. "They're not spotting anything out there, Sir," he reported. "Shall I call them in?"

"Yes--no!" the leader shouted in swift succession. For he'd just noticed that the intruder detection system had been disabled. His eyes met Maron's, and the technician blanched. "Computer glitch, eh?" Maron squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed hard. The guard reached out to reactivate the pertinent switch.

A whole new series of ear-splitting sounds filled the room, as a wall map of the facility suddenly showed four distinct points of light moving through the diagram. "Tell the interceptors to keep searching," came the corrected command. "In fact, tell them to widen their search area." He turned back to the blinking schematic of the terminal, intending to dispatch his men to the indicated locations, when all at once the points of light vanished--like crashed air vehicles dropping off an old-fashioned radar screen.

The map did not extend beyond the currently utilized portions of the building. Deva's cousin breathed a silent sigh of relief. But it was cut short when the squad leader turned toward him with menacing eyes and flaring nostrils. "Professor Maron," he said, "I think you've some explaining to do."

*****

"Whoever you are," bellowed the voice of the Federation trooper, "we know you're in there. We've got all the entrances sealed. You can't escape. Surrender now, and it will go easier for you."

Avon lay sandwiched between two pieces of machinery so ancient even he wasn't sure what they were. His gun drawn, he pressed himself flat to the floor, breathing heavily. The guard responsible for the announcement and the two guards with him made temptingly exposed targets. It would have been simplicity itself to pick them off--except for the fact that there were other guards in undisclosed places, and to open fire would have made _himself_ an equally tempting target for _them_.

All at once every light in the warehouse winked out. It was too convenient to be happenstance and too lucky an opportunity to pass up. Avon fired at the trio, who were ducking for cover. He got one in the leg, rolled to a new position lest they respond on the basis of sound alone, and fired again.

A second guard went down, but the man in charge had managed to pull back out of range and was screaming for reinforcements. As other security forces converged on the leader's position, pulling makeshift barricades in front of them, Avon felt a hand on his shoulder. "Need some help?" Hunda's voice inquired.

"Where the hell did _you_ come from?"

"I'm an expert in guerilla warfare, remember? And I know the layout of this place with my eyes closed."

"I assume you're the one who blew the fuses, so to speak?"

"Figured it would buy us a little time," the Helot confirmed. "What I can't figure out is how they realized so quickly where we are."

"Maron must have told them."

"He wouldn't!"

"Oh, don't be childish, Hunda. The question is: has he told them everything, or has he managed to hold some of it back?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, do they know how many of us they're looking for?"

Now the reinforcements were in the process of setting up portable searchlights. "Be careful. Keep your head down," Hunda warned. "I take it you have a plan?"

"Yes. I'm wondering what they'll do if we offer them a Maron a la Liedenbrank."

"I don't think I follow you."

"How good are you with that thing?" Avon indicated Hunda's gun.

"Very," was the concise reply.

"I hope so. I'm about to give you a chance to prove it."

"How?"

"I'm going to give myself up to them. You convince them it's for real."

In the dark only Hunda's altered breathing pattern gave evidence of his reaction. "You're taking one hell of a chance for Blake and Deva," he whispered.

"On the contrary," Avon whispered back, "I'm giving _all_ of us the only chance any of us has. Blake's raging attack of nobility back there deprived us of access to the teleport. If Tarrant is to bring the ship back within range, we have to make it safe for him. That means we have to get back into the computer room, preferably with _their_ leader in our custody. Just don't wait too long to follow me."

Now the searchlights erupted into full illumination. "This is your last chance," the voice of the enemy warned. "In two minutes I'm going to give the order to flood this entire area with Imobilar gas."

"He means business," Hunda said. "Look, they're passing out gas masks."

"No time like the present then." Avon stood up in full view of the searchlights. "Hold your fire," he shouted. "I surrender. I'm coming out." He glanced down at Hunda one last time. The Helot nodded reassuringly.

"Throw your weapon out before you," the trooper in charge instructed. "Keep your hands in the air where we can see them."

Avon tossed his gun, and Hunda took careful note of where it landed. Avon started to walk across the empty space separating them from the guards, and when he was halfway across, Hunda fired. The shot landed centimeters from Avon's foot. He hit the floor face-down as a second shot sailed over him and lodged in a nearby wall.

Two of the Federation troopers rushed forward, while the others provided a blanketing cover of return fire. They grabbed Avon's arms and pulled him the rest of the way to safety. "Thank you," he gasped, looking up at them. "My colleague evidently disagrees with my decision."

His "your welcome" consisted of a glancing blow to the face from the end of a laser rifle.

 

The plan to gas the warehouse temporarily postponed, the Federation squad leader looked down at his dazed prisoner. "I'm Security Chief Minx," he declared. "I want your name, the names of your companions, the location of your companions, and your reason for having infiltrated a Federation facility."

Avon stared at the five pairs of eyes hovering over him. "May I get up?" he requested in the meekest, most pleading tone he could effect.

In answer a boot rested dangerously against his windpipe, the pressure just enough to convince him his interrogator wasn't bluffing. "Your name, the names of your companions, their location, and your reason for being here," Minx repeated.

"My name is Shevron," he responded, retrieving the old alias as readily as he'd retrieved the whimpering posture he'd once used with Shrinker. "My companions are--" He stopped, startled, as one of the pairs of eyes suddenly vanished.

"Yes?" Minx demanded. A second pair of eyes disappeared. For a moment Avon actually wondered if that blow from the rifle had damaged his brain. "Please, I feel faint," he murmured.

Minx increased the pressure of his boot on Avon's throat. "That's not all you're going to feel if you don't answer me," he warned.

"Now, Avon!" cried Hunda's voice, as the third Federation trooper joined his two unconscious companions on the floor. The Helot had managed to work his way along the wall unobserved, sneak up behind the preoccupied squad and noiselessly dispatch them one by one with a suffocating stranglehold.

Avon kicked out at Minx, who stumbled and fell, but quickly recovered himself and barked into his wrist communicator, "Security Chief to all units. Launch canisters now."

Hunda was in hand-to-hand combat with the remaining Federation guard. As he overpowered the man, he pushed his falling body back in the direction of Avon's gun and managed to grab the gun just as the sound of a dozen mini-explosions filled the air.

The troopers stationed at the other entrances had heard the order and had responded to it. Clouds of thick, acrid smoke began to rise. Avon started coughing and reached for one of the nearby gas masks. Before he could get it on, Minx raised his laser rifle to fire. Holding Avon's gun, Hunda did the fastest thing he could think of: he lunged for the security chief and cracked him across the back of the head with it. "Come on, let's get out of here," he gasped, and he and Avon staggered from the warehouse back into the terminal, dragging Minx's unconscious body with them.

*****

When the gas started spreading through the warehouse, Blake and Deva were already several levels above the ground. Blake was, in fact, on the very top floor, having taken refuge in a small office which had once belonged to the executive in charge of the old refinery. He had barricaded the door by pushing several rows of filing cabinets against it. He'd heard the order to surrender over the loud speaker and later the threat to employ Imobilar. And he'd thought he'd heard some exchange of gunfire.

Isolated as he was, he had no way of knowing how Deva was faring one floor below, and he was even more concerned about Avon and Hunda, whom he presumed had been involved in the gun battle and who, if they were still hiding on the lower levels of the warehouse, must surely have been overcome by the gas.

Up here it wasn't that intolerable. His eyes and throat burned, but Imobilar was slow to rise and grew thinner as it did rise. He knew, too, that its effects were relatively short-lived. Unlike the  ancient forms of tear gas which had been used on Earth many centuries ago for control of unruly crowds out-of-doors, Imobilar had been designed specifically for use _indoors_ , to temporarily disorient and disable "misbehaving" dome-dwellers. It spontaneously dissipated within half an hour. Which meant that the guards would be _using_ that half hour to comb through every nook and cranny in the place, hoping to find their prey harmlessly docile.

Blake put his ear to the floor and could, indeed, hear the booted feet of Federation troopers moving back and forth. He looked inside his jacket to make sure the antidote Hunda had handed him just before all hell broke loose had not fallen out. No, it was still there; he tore off a strip of material from his shirt and tied it around the container for added protection.

Then he thought again of his three comrades, and his soul burned in an impotent fury of longing to help them. He knew there was no way he could possibly reach Hunda or Avon. If he were foolish enough to leave the relative security of this room for any length of time, either the searching troopers would seize him, or the choking vapors would fell him (and _then_ the searching troopers would seize him). Deva, however, was only one floor away. He _might_ make it down _one_ level--the gas would still be _relatively_ less potent there...

_And_ _do what for him then, Blake  Hold his hand_? He _had_ helped Deva once by holding his hand, but that had been under conditions of claustrophobic panic. But couldn't _these_ circumstances trigger a similar panic? Deva wasn't an active combat man by temperament or training--in that, at least, Avon had been right. He'd had no prior experience with gas. Would he know what to do? Would he stay calm enough to do it?

Blake's imagination was running riot now. He didn't even know where on the level below Deva might be, only that he had to try to find him. He began tugging at the filing cabinets he had pushed against the door. But it was harder than before--they seemed heavier than before--for even at this altitude, the gas was strong enough to reduce the efficiency of his breathing, all the more so during physical exertion...

There were three sets of cabinets. He managed to push the first two aside, his breath coming now in labored wheezes. As he reached for the third, he felt dizzy. The floor seemed to be sliding back and forth beneath his feet. He could no longer accurately gage the amount of force needed to accomplish his task, nor even quite solidly connect with the object in front of him. He grasped the upper edge of the third filing cabinet--or thought he had--and yanked hard.

He lost his balance and started to go down, reaching instinctively for the nearest source of support--which happened to be the first two cabinets. One hand grabbed onto each, and the next thing he knew, he'd taken them all down with him.

He blacked out momentarily, and when he came to, he found himself on his back with the full weight of the three heavy metal structures lying across his legs and pelvis, pinning him tightly to the floor.

*****

One level below, Deva was frantically trying to keep one step ahead of the searching troops. They'd actually spotted him at one point, but he'd managed to wound one and get away when the injured man's partner stopped to help him. Now he was crawling across the floor on his belly--the worst place to be in terms of the gas--but he felt far too vulnerable on his feet, or even on his hands and knees, too conspicuous a target...

His heart was pounding wildly, a mixture of fear and physical exhaustion. He managed to get inside a room with a door, and closing the door gave him courage to risk rising.

Oh, the air felt so much better now. It was really quite acrid, but compared to how it was near the floor, it could have been the sweet, pure air of the Gauda Prime forest. He inhaled deeply--and immediately began to sputter. He silently cursed himself for his stupidity--but it had been so tempting...

He regained a modicum of control over his breathing and then froze in place as footsteps approached that all-too-momentarily comforting door. Seeing the knob begin to turn, he looked around desperately for a place to hide. There was machinery he could duck behind, but that would afford scant protection, indeed...

In his terror he could imagine them already inside the room: feel them hauling him roughly to his feet, binding his hands behind his back, smashing his face with their rifle butts, kicking him into oblivion...

At the far end of the room was another door, leading to a tiny closet. It seemed the one possible hiding place they might overlook. He sprinted across the floor and dove inside.

*****

"Marvelous," Avon muttered, as he stared down at the still-unconscious body of the security chief. He and Hunda had carried the body back to the terminal and taken refuge with it inside a bathroom.

"What was I supposed to do?" the Helot retorted. "Let him shoot you?"

"You didn't have to hit him so _hard_ ," Avon said. "And you could have picked a better spot to strike."

"Oh, I'm sorry.  Next time I'll stop to calculate the exact trajectory and force of my blow."

"There isn't going to _be_ a next time if you don't bring him around and make him call off his troops."

"And just where do you think _you're_ going?" Hunda demanded, as Avon started for the door.

"Back to the warehouse. Blake and Deva could be in serious trouble."

"They were headed for the upper levels when we separated."

"Even so."

"And what do you imagine you can _do_ for them? The place is crawling with security forces."

"Who will not stop to give me a second look if I'm wearing one of these." Avon indicated the gas mask he had managed to grab during the earlier altercation.

"And if you find them? What then?"

"Well, for starters, I can give them gas masks."

"But you only have one."

Avon flashed his teeth. "I only _need_ one--to begin with."

"And when I wake him up? _If_ I wake him up?"

"Oh, Hunda, I'm counting on it," Avon said. "I'm counting on your getting him to call off the search of the warehouse before I have to figure out how to get Blake and Deva back here."

Hunda was now dragging Minx to the shower and positioning the shower head directly over the man's face. "And if he's reluctant to do that?" A torrent of water gushed down, and Hunda shoved Minx's face into it.

Avon smiled approvingly. "Convince him," he said. "Use your charm."

*****

He was right about not being noticed. He moved through the warehouse with complete impunity and even managed to acquire the two extra masks he was after. He did that by luring an isolated trooper on the ground floor into a secluded spot on the pretext that he'd found one of the intruders, then knocking the man unconscious and taking his mask. He repeated the stunt with equal success on the next higher level. It was easiest there where the gas was still thickest, and vision somewhat obscured.

He'd known Blake was heading for the top, so as soon as he had the two masks, he headed there himself, by-passing the intervening level. A few short minutes--and a lifetime--later, he was standing in the doorway to that office, staring at the man on the floor.

"Blake, are you all right?" he gasped, tearing off his mask.

"Avon, thank God!" the other moaned.

"What in the world happened?" He shook himself out of his momentary paralysis, stepped all the way inside, and closed the door behind him.

"I was trying to get to Deva. He's one floor below. I became dizzy from the gas. I managed to bring my own barricade down on top of me."

"It's a wonder you didn't bring a squad of troopers down on top of you. The noise must have been incredible. Here, have a gas mask."

"I don't know. I didn't hear it. I blacked out. Thanks." Blake paused to fit the device over his face.

Avon left his own mask off, finding the relatively small amount of gas at this level easily bearable. "You do lead a charmed life, Blake. How badly are you injured? Is anything broken?"

The rebel leader was still panting for breath. "Not sure. It hurts like hell, though. What's happening down below?"

"Maron talked."

"I figured that much out."

"Hunda has the security chief, but he's unconscious at the moment. Hunda's trying to revive him so we can force him to call off the search _and_ the interceptors." Avon paused to sample the air with a cautious sniff. "I think the gas is starting to dissipate."

Blake removed his mask as well. "Yes, definitely," he agreed.

"And there's no one available to order a second round."

"Right--ow!" A sudden, piercing pain in the groin forced a cry from Blake's lips and drained the color from his cheeks.

"Hang on, Blake," Avon said. "I'll get you out."

He bent over to reach for the first of the three filing cabinets, but was stopped by a startlingly forceful objection from the man he was trying to help. "No! Never mind me. Get Deva out."

"Blake, you're injured."

"And if the guards get to him, he'll be dead. You know what he intends."

Avon remembered well that day at the farmhouse on Gauda Prime when Deva had informed the entire group of his decision never to be taken alive, remembered Blake's look of shock and words of protest, remembered his own mocking commentary... "And if the guards get to _you_?" he countered. "Helpless like that?"

In reply Blake withdrew his gun from beneath the mountain of metal. "Then _they'll_ be dead. Helpless is a state of mind. I intend to shoot anyone who walks through that door. Anyone who isn't you, that is," he amended with a grin.

"If you don't pass out again first," Avon observed drily.

"Don't worry--I won't." Blake's labored speech did not exactly inspire confidence in the reliability of his assertion. "You're not the only one who can rise above pain, Avon," he declared in a somewhat steadier voice.

Their eyes met. "I know that," Avon said. "I'll be back for you."

"I never doubted it."

A powerful surge of pleasure mixed with resentment rose in Avon's chest at the sound of those words. "Try not to do anything spectacularly stupid in the meantime," he implored. The rebel leader laughed, the laughter terminating in a howl of pain. "Try hard, Blake," Avon added, with exasperated but undisguised affection.

No sooner was Avon out the door than Blake's teleport bracelet sounded. " _Zebulon_ calling landing party. This is Tarrant. Respond, please."

It took him a long, agonizing minute to work the bracelet out of the jacket pocket where he'd stored it with the vial of antidote for safekeeping. "Blake here. Where the hell are you, Tarrant? I told you to stay out of range."

"We are out of _detector_ range," the pilot replied. "Orac's boosting the signal so I can talk to you. I'll have to move in closer if you want teleport, though."

"No! Not yet," Blake insisted. "Something went wrong with Maron's plan to blind the scanners. Interceptors were launched..."

"We know," Tarrant cut in. "We've been playing hide-and-seek with them for two hours. Two hours, Blake. You were supposed to be back within one."

"Well, I'm sorry to be tardy."

"Damn it, Blake, I've got a ship full of worried Helots. Their leader is down there--presumably in some sort of trouble. So's mine," he added softly.

"Thank you for your concern," Blake replied more gently. "Everything's fine down here."

"Do you think I'm a bloody idiot?" Tarrant exploded. "Everything is _not_ fine down there. Now, interceptors or no interceptors, I'm going to risk bringing the ship into teleport range for a quick pickup."

"No!" Blake screamed again. "That's _my_ ship, and you will _not_ risk it. Not to mention Orac, who's on it. Not to mention the six other lives you have to think about now and the ones back on Ryanec depending on that ship's safe return."

"Those six lives you just alluded to are six very experienced fighters," Tarrant argued, "and they're more than willing to return to the surface if Hunda's in danger."

"No!" Blake shouted a third time. "Look, I appreciate the offer, but I assure you it isn't necessary. We're handling things down here."

"You don't sound too well, Blake."

"I'm fine," lied the rebel leader through teeth clenched against the pain. "We're fine. Everything's under control. Or will be," he mumbled under his breath.

"What's that, Blake? I didn't catch the last bit."

"I said keep that boosted signal open, and we'll contact you as soon as it's safe for you to return to orbit. Blake out."

*****

In the closet where he'd taken refuge, Deva stood trembling uncontrollably. The guard that had entered the room to search for him had not come anywhere near the closet and had promptly left to look elsewhere. But pipes ran through the closet which magnified the sounds of the search in general, making everything seem closer than it actually was.

Deva had been afraid to enter that confining space, but now he was just as afraid to leave it. It even afforded some protection from the gas--well, perhaps that was just his imagination, but he felt as though it did. The problem was, he was equally terrified to stay _or_ leave. The last time he'd been locked up in a box this size, he'd had the comforting companionship of the man he admired most in the universe to lean on. Now he was utterly alone, in total darkness, with walls closing in on him, and the air so stagnant, so stale, so hard to breathe...

He tried telling himself that it wasn't the same thing, that he wasn't _locked_ in this time, that all he had to do was turn the knob and walk through the open door. But then he'd be walking into danger, into the hands of an implacable and merciless enemy, who, if they didn't slaughter him outright, would throw him into another box...

_Would throw him into another box. Would lock him in for real! For as long as they liked.  For as long as it took to convince him to cooperate_.

The thought of it set to racing a heart he had imagined already beating as fast as humanly possible. And hadn't he heard about other devices the Federation used to break people? "Immobility machines" they called them--because when they strapped you into one, you couldn't move a muscle, and it was like lying in your own coffin, cold and silent and pitch black, and they would leave you there for days, without food or water or any way to tend to your most basic bodily functions. _For days_...

He thought back to his conversation with Soolin about his willingness to endure pain for Blake, and he felt like the most despicable, dishonest coward in the galaxy. What pompous, self-deluding nonsense that had been! He burned with shame at the very memory of it.

A sound close by made him jump. This sound was _really_ close by. It wasn't coming through the pipes. It was in the room with him!

It was footsteps coming closer, closer than that other guard had ever come. And this one was searching amongst the room's machinery in earnest--he could hear that he was. He sounded ruthless, too, this one did, in the way he pushed those machines around. Any minute now he would spot the closet--and find the puny, pathetic excuse for a revolutionary quaking inside it...

Deva's fingers closed tight around the gun in his hand. He might get off one shot, might even bring down this particular trooper, but there'd be others behind him, and that would be the end of it. He was trapped. Utterly and irrevocably. There was no way out.

_Blake, I won't betray you, Blake_ , he swore in hot desperation. _But, God, when they see me like this, they'll know. They'll know all they have to do is lock me in a tiny cell for a few hours and I'll be willing to tell anything. And there's nothing I can do to change that, nothing._

Then all of a sudden the realization hit him: _He couldn't change it, but he could prevent it_. In his panic he'd briefly forgotten that there _was_ , after all, _one_ way out.

The footsteps were practically on top of him now. Practically on top of him, and then they stopped. He knew the trooper was standing right outside the closet door, probably debating whether or not to open it.

With tears in his eyes, Deva raised the gun and pressed the muzzle against his own temple. Don't hate me, Blake, he whispered in his mind. And please don't blame yourself. I couldn't bear it if I thought you were blaming yourself…

The enemy on the other side of the door had made his decision, for the door was creaking open--already a crack of light pierced the darkness. With desperate resolve, the man inside released the safety catch and started to squeeze the trigger.

*****

"Deva!" shouted Avon in horror. "What are you doing? Have you gone mad?" He ripped off the gas mask he'd donned again for concealment.

Deva froze, a tableau of confusion. "Avon?" he started hesitantly. Then he put away his weapon and rushed into the other man's arms, crying over and over again, "Avon, oh, Avon, I've never been so glad to see anyone in my life!"

Avon stood unresponsive, but unresisting, in Deva's embrace. "I guess that answers my question," he said. "You _have_ gone mad."

Deva pulled back, laughing with joy and relief. "I thought you were the Federation," he explained.

A slow smile of comprehension played on Avon's lips. "Hallucinating, too, I see." He handed the other man a gas mask and once again fixed his own in place. "Come on," he urged, with more warmth in his voice than he'd intended. "Let's get out of here."

*****

"What do you mean Blake needs our help?"

"You'll see in a minute."

The voices in the corridor roused the injured rebel leader from the soporific twilight state of consciousness into which he'd drifted despite his stated resolve to remain alert. He shook off the stupor and assumed a posture of full vigilance as his associates slipped into the room.

"Oh, my God!" exclaimed the recently rescued man from the closet below.

"I'm all right, Deva," Blake said in automatic reassurance, though the truth was, he wasn't _sure_ if he was or not.

"Well?" Avon demanded as he and Deva began the task of extricating the rebel leader from his predicament. "Did you do anything spectacularly stupid?"

"I don't know," Blake answered playfully. "Tarrant contacted me, and I told him not to try to come back for us through that line of interceptors, to regard the safety of the ship and its present passengers as his first priority. Does that qualify as spectacularly stupid according to the parameters of your game?"

Avon sighed. "No, just ordinary, run-of-the-mill stupid."

"Tell me, Avon, if this were a year ago, and that ship were _Scorpio_ , and you were in my place, what would you have done?"

The computer tech chuckled softly. "Probably the same thing." With one last push, he and Deva managed to remove the third filing cabinet. Blake groaned in relief as the final weight was lifted off him. "Don't try to stand just yet," Avon cautioned. "I want to examine you."

"Yes, Doctor," Blake shot back with good humor. Already his color was returning to normal.

Avon felt up and down Blake's legs with his hands. Showing remarkable gentleness, Deva thought. "I don't think anything's broken," he declared, then paused as his fingers approached the pelvic area. "May I?"

"In Docholli's absence," Blake granted with a flourish.

Avon pressed lightly on Blake's groin, and the rebel leader winced. "Sorry," he murmured. "There's a lot of swelling here, Blake. It's probably nothing more than severe bruising--just a particularly tender place to choose to get bruised in."

"I didn't _choose_ it!" Blake barked with automatic combativeness. Then he checked himself. "Sorry."

"Yes, well, the Medical Unit on the _Zebulon_ should be able to deal with it--if we ever get back _on_ the _Zebulon_."

"Avon!" Deva called sharply from the door where he was surreptitiously peering out into the corridor.

"What is it?"

"Troopers making another pass." He jumped back in alarm. "They're headed straight this way."

Avon drew his gun, and Blake, now sitting up on the floor, pointed his in the same direction. Deva remained to the side of the door so that he could drop from behind anyone whom the other two failed to fell head on.

Just as the Federation squad was about to come charging in, an authoritative voice came blaring over the loudspeaker. "This is Security Chief Minx to all units. The intruders have been apprehended. Report at once to your duty stations. Repeat: the intruders are now in custody. All units return to your stations."

The squad in the hallway holstered their weapons and quickly moved to disperse. All over the warehouse the remaining units were doing likewise. Blake and Avon and Deva looked at one another with simultaneous relief. The two uninjured men helped the rebel leader to his feet.

"Well?" Avon said.

"In the immortal words of Orac," responded Blake, "'Well' is not a question." He broke into a hearty smile. "But, yes, well enough, considering."

"I wonder if he's recalled the interceptors yet," Avon mused.

Giving him a let's-find-out look, Blake whipped out his teleport bracelet. "Landing party to _Zebulon_. Come in, please."

"Blake," responded the pilot's voice, "Tarrant here."

"Status report please, Tarrant. Any sign of interceptors?"

"Negative. The entire fleet seems to have returned to Helotrix." A pause, then, "Can I come and get you yet, for pity's sake?"

Again the room was filled with smiles. "Not quite yet, Tarrant," Blake answered. "There's one more detail we have to check on down here. Stand by for instructions to return to orbit."

"Detail?" Deva queried an instant later.

"The interceptors may be gone," Avon told him, "but the ship will still be spotted on the terminal's routine scanners if they're not shut off."

"Well, if Hunda's holding Minx, won't Maron have taken care of that?"

Blake and Avon exchanged glances, realizing for the first time that Deva hadn't figured out Maron's role in their discovery. "We can't assume Maron is in any condition to," Avon said carefully, adding quickly, "And I doubt that Hunda or Minx knows how to."

Alarm flickered in Deva's eyes. "What do you mean Maron may not be in any condition to shut off the scanners? Why the hell shouldn't he be?" Avon looked away. "Blake?" Deva demanded with growing anxiety.

*****

Deva knelt beside his cousin's corpse, weeping softly while Blake laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. Avon was in the process of once more blinding the scanners to the orbit the _Zebulon_ was waiting to resume, and Hunda was glaring at Minx, who sat securely bound to a chair.

The actual cause of Maron's death had been a single lethal discharge from a laser rifle, but the bloody, battered face with its crooked nose and broken teeth and the smashed knuckles on both hands told a tale of what had gone before: swift, brutal, primitive and persuasive.

Deva rose to his feet, brushing the tears from his cheeks, his eyes still fixed on Maron's mutilated flesh. "To die for the rebellion is one thing, but like that--" He shuddered and turned to face Blake. "He told them where he'd sent us, didn't he?"

"I'm sure he tried not to," the rebel leader said gently.

Deva sighed. "To go out knowing that had been your last act--what could be worse?"

"Deva, your cousin gave us several years of valuable service. No one moment can cancel that out, regardless of its timing."

"Blake's right, Deva," Hunda said. "You mustn't blame Maron."

"I'm _not_ blaming him. I'm grieving for him--for his loss."

Now Avon rejoined them with a puzzled inquiry. "His?  Yours, surely..."

"No--his," Deva reiterated. "You weren't the Federation, Avon, but if you _had_ been--excuse me." He stole away quietly to a private corner to compose himself.

"I told you, Blake--this isn't his strong suit," Avon said.

"Give him a break, will you?" the other snapped angrily. "Maron was family."

"Deva fears pain almost as much as Vila does."

"It's not pain he fears at all, Avon. It's the possibility of causing harm to the people he loves."

"Yes, and he's got good reason," the computer tech warned. He gestured towards the monitors. "I've taken care of the scanners again. Any time you want to call Tarrant--"

As if that announcement had signaled some sort of consummation, Hunda rose and drew his gun. "Then we don't need Minx any longer," he declared.

The security chief's eyes widened. "Wait a minute," he protested. "You can't kill me."

"Give me one good reason why not," Hunda said.

"Please! I did what you wanted!"

" _He_ did what _you_ wanted!" Hunda snarled back, pointing at Maron's body.

"Blake," Minx entreated. "You _are_ Blake, aren't you?"

"Yes, I'm Blake."

"Please, I've heard you're a compassionate man."

"Oh, is that what you've heard?"

"You can't let him kill me."

"I can't really stop him." He paused, looking down at the dead man. "And I'm not at all sure that I want to."

"You surprise me sometimes, Blake," Avon interjected, and the rebel leader knew he was thinking of Travis and Arlen.

"This is Hunda's turf, Avon," he said simply. "We're just guests of the house."

"Right," echoed the Helot, priming his weapon. Then he turned to Maron's cousin. "Deva, if you'd prefer to do the honors--"

The man from Gauda Prime declined with a series of hand gestures that expressed his ambivalence at the prospect.

"Right," Hunda said again, taking aim.

"Please, I beg you!" Minx gasped. "Show me some mercy!"

"I am showing you some mercy," the Helot replied. "I'm sparing you the preliminaries you bestowed upon my comrade." He fired, and Minx slumped forward in his chair, prevented by the ropes which bound him from falling to the floor.

Avon watched Blake watching the execution, outwardly as cold as he had ever seen him. Still something flickered in the rebel leader's eyes when Minx died which told Avon that Blake would have played it differently...

"Can I see you alone for a minute, Blake?" Hunda requested.

That broke the spell. "Summon the ship, Avon," Blake instructed.

Deva knelt beside his cousin to bid him one final farewell. Avon spoke into his bracelet. "Landing party to _Zebulon_. You're cleared to return to orbit. Signal when you're within range and stand by to teleport."

Blake hobbled stiffly across the room to confer with Hunda. "I want to thank you again," the Helot began, "for risking your life when you didn't have to, for a man you were feeling angry enough at to throttle."

"When Tarrant gets here, I'll have one of your men teleport down with an extra bracelet. We'll teleport _you_ safely out of the city and back to your base."

"I am genuinely sorry about the business with the antidote."

"Yes, well, I've been thinking about that, actually. I've decided it's all right." Blake spoke in hushed tones, as if he didn't want Avon and Deva to overhear.

"It is?" Hunda echoed disbelievingly.

"Well, it will be." Blake drew closer to the Helot and lowered his voice to a whisper. "I'd like you to do me one favor, though. Keep what happened just between the two of us, all right? Don't mention it to--" He gave a little jerky head motion in the direction of his companions.

Hunda looked bewildered, but nodded his agreement.

"Tarrant's back on station," Avon announced to the group. "We're going home."

When the next scheduled squad of security personnel made their next routine check of the Magnetrix Terminal, they found Maron and Minx in the computer room together, sharing the eerie repose of eternal slumber.

*****

"It's the only thing that makes sense, Blake," Avon said. They were sitting in the ship's Medical Unit so that the rebel leader could finish the last of a series of healing treatments to his injured groin. The trip to Wanta to drop off Hunda's fighters had added an extra day and a half to the total time of the journey, and three treatments daily during that time, combined with oral anti-edemics, had just about restored Blake to normal. "Maron told me just before he let me into the main computer that most of what we'd find there was trivia, that it would take even Orac days to weeks to ferret out the odd bit of genuinely useful information."

"So?"

"So amongst the trivia, I must have hit a very valuable file, indeed--something important enough for the Federation to build its own separate alarm system right into it."

"And that's what triggered all the alarms and launched the interceptors?"

"Had to be."

"We'll have to set Orac looking for it, won't we?" Blake murmured, adding, "After it finishes putting together my false identity for the Pylene-50 plant, of course." He turned off the treatment machine and reached for his trousers.

Avon glanced at him. "I still say we should have teleported out of there at the first alarm."

"And left Maron?"

"Maron's dead."

"Hunda isn't." The rebel leader pulled on his pants and stood up.

"Has it occurred to you, Blake, that if there'd been only one of us to hide instead of four, it might have worked?"

A momentary shadow crossed Blake's face, then he shook his head. "No, because whatever tipped Minx off to the fact that Maron was deceiving them was unrelated to our numbers. Maron still would have been forced to betray Hunda, and Hunda never would have made it out alone."

Avon frowned, unable to think of an adequate comeback. "Good man, that Hunda," he finally settled for muttering.

"Oh, high praise from Kerr Avon," the other goaded.

"I mean it, Blake. You could learn a thing or two from that Helot."

At that moment Deva walked into the Medical Unit. "Tarrant says to tell you he's just made voice contact with the base."

"Status report?" Blake requested.

"All right, but you're not going to like it: The entire east wing has been converted into a makeshift infirmary."

"What?!"

"Yes. Vila managed to give himself a case of food poisoning by mixing imported Earth food with the local brand of alcohol--some basic incompatibility that wreaks havoc with the digestive enzymes, apparently. Dayna was playing around with a new explosive, and it went off in her hand, causing second degree burns. Two of the Malkar children have come down with Palomian Fever. It's highly contagious, so they're in quarantine. Oh, and Docholli's in quarantine with them."

"Docholli!" Blake exploded.

Deva shrugged. "He caught it."

"How's Soolin?" Avon asked, eyeing Blake's growing apoplexy with amusement.

"The only one of our lot who's managed to stay healthy," Deva replied. "In fact, I'd like to get back to talking to her if you two don't need me for anything..."

"Yes, yes, go." Blake waved him off impatiently. Left alone with Avon, he gave full vent to his fury. "Can you believe this? I leave Ryanec for less than a week, and everything goes to hell in a handbasket."

"That's just a bit egotistical, isn't it, Blake?"

"Avon, if Docholli is out of commission, the surgery will have to be postponed."

All at once the extent of Blake's reaction made sense. "Yes," Avon murmured slyly, "I'm afraid that slipped my mind." Then he put on a flagrantly false sympathetic face. "Oh, what a pity."

"Could you try to contain your ecstasy just a little?" Blake shouted.

Raising his hands in the air placatingly, the computer tech took a seat. "Well, at least one part of this mission went according to plan," he observed. Blake looked at him. "We have the antidote," he declared.

Blake nodded and smiled, but there was something about the brevity of both responses that gave Avon a sudden uneasy feeling.


End file.
